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THOUGHTS 



ON THE 



DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 



BY SAMUEL IBEMUS PRIME, D.D. 



WITH AN APPENDIX SELECTED FROM VARIOUS AUTHORS. 



NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION. 



NEW-YORK : 
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, 

770 BROADWAY, CORNER- OF NINTH STREET. 
1865. 




Entered, according to the Act of Congress, In the 
year 1865, by 

tfhwon 13* if. BanUoIpfc, 

In the Clork's Office of the Southern District of New-York 



Jof)tt a. (Stag, 

PRINTER AND STEREOTYPES, 



LC Control Number 




tmp96 028674 



CONTENTS 



Chapter f . 

FAOt 

THE CHILD IS DEAD, 9 



Chapter Iff* 
CAN I BRING HIM BACK AGAIN? ♦ 23 

Chapter 3E1EJE* 
HE IS NOT LOST, THOUGH GONE, 29 

(Chapter IF, 
INFINITE WISDOM TOOK HIM AWAY, 34 

ftfjapter F. 
INFINITE LOVE CALLED THE CHILD, ; 37 

(Cfjapttt Fff. 
THE CHILD IS HAPPIER NOW, 43 



IT 



Chapter FEE. 

PAGE 

WE SHALL SEE HIM AGAIN, 48 

Chapter Fill. 
A LETTER FROM A FRIEND, 51 

Chapter E£. 
TWO YEARS IN HEAVEN, 5T 

Cfjapter X. 
AFTER YEARS,.... 60 

Chapter X3E. 
A GERMAN MOTHER, 65 

J^mtts auir ISoems. 

THE DYING CHILD, 63 

SUSPIRIA, , 65 

BEREAVEMENT, 66 

ON SEEING A DECEASED INFANT, 67 

THE EARLY LOST, , 70 

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS, 71 

THE SCULPTURED CHILDREN ON CHANTREY'S MONU- 
MENT, * 73 

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD, 75 

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT, 76 

MINE EARTHLY CHILDREN ROUND ME BLOOM, 78 

THE CHILD AND DEATH, „ 80 

TnE DYING CHILD, 82 

WILLY, 83 



RESIGNING, . 84 

A SUNBEAM AND A SHADOW, , 65 

THE DYING BOY,...., 86 

LITTLE BESSIE, 89 

THE NEW YEAR'S EVE, 92 

THE RETURN OF SPRING, 96 

HOW PEACEFULLY, 100 

SONNET ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD, 102 

THE CHILD OF JAMES MELVILLE, 103 

CASA'S DIRGE, 107 

ARMENIA, Ill 

OUR BABY, 113 

A HOUSEHOLD LAMENTATION, 115 

AND ONE IS NOT, 117 

SONNET— "OFT HAVE I THOUGHT," 118 

THE CHILDREN AT THE GOLDEN GATES, 119 

THE GOOD SHEPHERD, 120 

RESIGNATION,. 122 

BEREAVEMENT, 125 

THE STAR AND THE CHILD, 128 

ANGEL CHARLEY, 129 

"MOTHER, SING 'JERUSALEM,'" 132 

EARLY LOST, EARLY SAVED, 134 

THE ETERNAL GAIN, 137 

EPITAPH IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF HERNE 138 



.,J 



VI 



FAQS 

A DEATH-BED, (ALDRICH,) 139 

THE DEATH-BED, (HOOD,) 139 

MINISTERING ANGEL, 141 

CEASE TO WEEP,. 142 

OUR ELDEST BORN, 143 

"GOD LOOKED AMONG HIS CHERUB BAND," ..145 

WE ARE SEVEN, 146 

THE SAFETY OF THE INFANT DEAD, 149 

THE SPIRIT'S SONG OF CONSOLATION, 151 

EPITAPH ON A CHILD, 153 

THE MASTER'S CALL...... 154 

ENTERING IN, 155 

THE WINNING SHEPHERD, 156 

FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE, 15T 

OUR BABY, 160 

BABY LOOKING OUT FOR ME, 162 

MY DARLING'S SHOES, 164 

ONLY A YEAR, 166 

FAIRY TALES, 168 



»*aii) of mit CljUtan. 



CHAPTER I. 



It is hard to believe it : that we shall no 
more hear the glad voice, nor meet the merry 
laugh that burst so often from its glad heart. 

Child as it was, it was a pleasant child, and 
to the partial parent there are traits of love- 
liness that no other eye may see. It was a 
wise ordering of Providence that we should 
love our own children as no one else loves 
them, and as we love the children of none 
besides. And ours was a lovely child. 

But the child is dead. You may put away 
its playthings. Put them where they will be 
safe. I would not like to have them broken 
or lost ; and you need not lend them to other 
children when they come to see us. It would 



10 



pain me to see them in other hands, much as 
I love to see children happy with their toys. 

Its clothes yon may lay aside ; I shall often 
look them oyer, and each of the colors that 
he wore will remind me of him as he looked 
when he was here. I shall weep often when 
I think of him ;. but there is a luxury in 
thinking of the one that is gone, which I 
would not part with for the world. I think 
of my child now, a child always, though an 
angel among angels. 

The child is dead. The eye has lost its 
lustre. The hand is still and cold. Its little 
heart is not beating now. How pale it looks ! 
Yet the very form is dear to me. Every 
lock of its hair, every feature of the face, is 
a treasure that I shall prize the more, as the 
months of my sorrow come and go. 

Lay the little one in his coffin. He was 
never in so cold and hard a bed, but he will 
feel it not. He would not know it, if he had 
been laid in his cradle, or in his mother's 
arms. Throw a flower or two by his side : 
like them he withered. 

Carry him out to the grave. Gently. It 
is a hard road this to the grave. Every jar 
seems to disturb the infant sleeper. Here we 
are, at the brink of the sepulchre. Oh, how 



II 

damp, and dark, and cold ! But the dead do 
not feel it. There is no pain, no fear, no 
weeping there. Sleep on now, and take your 
rest! 

Fill it up! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! 
Every clod seems to fall on my heart. Every 
smothered sound from the grave is saying, 
Gone, gone, gone ! It is full now. Lay the 
turf gently over the dear child. Plant a 
myrtle among the sods, and let the little one 
sleep among the trees and flowers. Our 
child is not there. His dust, precious dust, 
indeed, is there, but our child is in heaven. 
He is not here ; he is risen. 

I shall think of the form that is mouldering 
here among the dead ; and it will be a mourn- 
ful comfort to come at times, and think of the 
child that was once the light of our house, 
and the idol — ah ! that I must own the secret 
of this sorrow — the idol of my heart. 

And it is beyond all language to express 
the joy, in the midst of tears, I feel, that my 
sin, in making an idol of the child, has not 
made that infant less dear to Jesus. Nay, 
there is even something that tells me the 
Saviour called the darling from me, that I 
might love the Saviour more when I had one 
child less to love. He knoweth our frame ; 



12 



lie knows tlie way to win and bind us. Dear 
Saviour, as thou hast my lamb, give me too a 
place in thy bosomi Set me as a seal on thy 
heart. 

And now let us go back to the house. It 
is strangely changed. It is silent and cheer- 
less, gloomy even. "When did I enter this 
door without the greeting of those lips and 
eyes, that I shall greet no more? Can the ab- 
sence of but one produce so great a change 
so soon ? When one of the children was away 
on a visit, we did not feel the absence as 
we do now. That was for a time ; this is for 
ever. He will not return. Hark ! I thought 
for a moment it was the child, but it was only 
my own heart's yearning for the lost. He 
will not come again. 

* •& * * 

Such thoughts as these have been the 
thoughts of many in the season of their first 
grief. 

As heart answereth to the heart, there is a 
wondrous likeness in the sorrow of parents 
over the death of their little ones. The rich 
and the poor, the learned and the ignorant 
are alike, when they sit by the side of their 
babes in the struggles of death; and when 
they follow them to the grave, their hearts are 



true to nature, and nature mourns when the 
loved are torn away. 

One of the iron sort of men, a man of war, 
sent for me to come and see him in his afflic- 
tion. His child, a sweet girl of three or four 
years only, had been taken with the croup, 
and died before medical relief could be ob- 
tained. He met me in his hall, and fell on 
my neck, and wept like a child. I had 
never seen him weep before. I had never 
thought that such a man as he had tears to 
shed. And I do not know that he would 
have wept, had the pestilence or the sword 
swept off all the rest of those whom he loved, 
and spared the infant that nestled in his 
bosom. 

If this is a weakness to -those who have 
never tasted the cup, I am sure that none of 
them will be offended with these words, for 
they will not read them till they are weeping 
too. To be a brother in sorrow, you must 
have suffered. Even the Lord of heaven had 
to become a man, that he might, by his expe- 
rience, learn to bear our sorrows. And then 
he wept with those who wept. 

Some time ago I was at the funeral of the 
child of a pastor; and when the neighboring 
minister, who had been called upon to bury 



14 



his brother's child, had closed his words of 
sympathy and comfort, the stricken father 
rose and said: " When I have sought to min- 
ister to your consolation in the times of your 
affliction, weeping with you over your dying 
children, you have often said to me that I 
knew nothing of the anguish, and could not 
sympathize with you in your loss. I feel it 
now. I never did before." And then he 
pointed them to the sources of comfort that 
God was opening to his soul, and asked them 
to come to the fountain and drink. The 
house in which we were then assembled stood 
on a hill-side, overlooking a beautiful river, 
and, on the other side of it, "sweet fields 
stood drest in living green." The pastor went 
on to say — and there was a strange power and 
beauty, too, in the words as they fell from his 
lips in the midst of tears — " Often, as I have 
stood on the borders of this stream, and 
looked over to the fair fields on the other 
shore, I have felt but little interest in the 
people or the place in full view before me. 
The river separates me from them, and my 
thoughts and affections were here. But a few 
months ago, one of my children moved across 
to the other side, and took up his residence 
there. Since that time, my heart has been 



15 

there also. In the morning, when I rise and 
look out toward the east, I think of my child 
who is over there, and again and again 
through the day I think of him, and the 
other side of the river is always in my 
thoughts with the child who is gone there to 
dwell. And now, since another of my child- 
ren has crossed the river of death, and has 
gone to dwell on the other side, my heart is 
drawn out toward heaven and the inhabit- 
ants of heaven as it was never drawn before. 
I supposed that heaven was dear to me ; that 
my Father was there, and my friends were 
there, and that I had a great interest in hea- 
ven, but I had no child there ! Now I have ; 
and I never think and never shall think of 
heaven, but with the memory of that dear 
child who is to be among its inhabitants for 
ever." 

It was a beautiful and impressive illustra- 
tion. The heart of the father was soothed by 
thoughts like these. He loved to look away 
to heaven, and think of it as the abode of his 
child, a seraph now, happier far than he could 
be in this vale of tears, and happier than he 
would ever have been, had he lived to grow 
up to manhood, to die in sin. 

The Eev. Dr. Pye was called to part with 



16 



two children, a son and a daughter. A few 
days afterwards, lie wrote a letter as if it had 
come from the girl just after she had ceased 
to breathe, and a little before her brother's 
death. Here is an extract from the letter 
which he supposes his child to write : 

" It was he who made us that called us 
away, and we cheerfully obeyed the sum- 
mons ; and I must now tell you, though you 
already know it, that he expects from you not 
only that you meekly and calmly submit to 
such a seemingly severe dispensation of his 
providence, but that you also rejoice with me 
in it, because it is the will and pleasure of our 
divine Father. I, young as I was, am now 
an inhabitant of heaven, and already see the 
beauty and harmony of that little chain of 
events which related to my short abode in 
your world, and even the manner of my leav- 
ing it ; and when you see the things as they 
really are, and not as they now appear, you 
will confess and adore the divine goodness, 
even in taking us so soon from your em- 
braces. 

"Ask not why it has pleased God so early 
to remove us ; we sufficiently answered the 
great end of our being if, while living, at the 
same time that we gave you pleasure, you 



17 



were disposed to lead us, by your examples 
and precepts, into the paths of virtue and reli- 
gion ; and if now, by the loss of us, you be- 
come examples of patience and submission to 
the divine will. 

" Let, therefore, all the little incidents in 
our past lives, the remembrance of which is 
too apt to renew your sorrow, be so many oc- 
casions of your joy, inasmuch as they may 
recall the pleasant ideas you once delighted 
in; and let the dismaying and melancholy 
remembrance of our sickness and early death 
be changed into cheering and bright ideas of 
what we now enjoy, and what you, I hope, 
will one day see us in possession of." 

There was something very comforting in 
this thought, of the child departed sending 
back a message to the mourning parent. I 
doubt not that children in heaven are aston- 
ished, if they know that their parents here, 
on the earth, are grieving on their account. 
" If our parents only knew what we have 
gained, how soon they would dry their 
tears I" 

tfhe lady of Sir Stamford Baffles, in India, 
was overwhelmed with grief for the loss of a 
favorite child, unable to bear the sight of her 
other children, unable to bear even the light 



18 



of day. She was lying upon lier couch, with 
a feeling of desolation that was fast growing 
into despair, when she was addressed by a 
poor, ignorant woman, one of the natives, 
who had been employed in the nursery: "I 
am come," said the servant, "because you 
have been here many days shut up in a dark 
room, and no one dares to come near you. 
Are you not ashamed to grieve in this man- 
ner, when you ought to be thanking God for 
having given you the most beautiful child 
that ever was seen ? Did any one ever see 
him or speak of him without admiring him ? 
And, instead of letting this child continue in 
this world till he should be worn out with 
trouble and sorrow, has not God taken him to 
heaven in all his beauty ? "What would you 
have more ? For shame ! leave off weeping, 
and let me open a window." 

It is not always wise to bid a mourner 
" leave off weeping." Tears are sometimes 
good for the soul. That grief is very bitter 
which cannot find tears. I have often wished 
that they would come, and relieve this dry 
and dreadful pressure on the heart. But if 
we do not cease to weep, by all means let us 
open the window. Let us have the light of 
God's countenance shining upon us like the 



19 



sun at noon. To shut ourselves up in the 
dark to brood over our sorrows, is the worst 
of all remedies for grief. To cherish our 
afflictions, as if they were to be indulged, and 
petted, and kept fresh as long as possible, and 
as if it were wrong for us to go out into the 
world, and mingle in the duties and pleasures 
of social Christian life., is a sinful yielding to 
the power of a dispensation that was not 
designed to be thus received. 

The pious Flavel says- -and there is great 
wisdom in these words of his — " Mourner, 
whatever may be your grief for the death of 
your children, it might have been still greater 
for their life. Bitter experience once led a 
good man to say, l It is better to weep for ten 
children dead, than for one living.' Remem- 
ber the heart-piercing affliction of David, 
whose son sought his life. Your love for 
your children will hardly admit of the thought 
of such a thing as possible in your own case. 
They appeared innocent and amiable ; and 
you fondly believed that, through your care 
and prayers, they would have become the joy 
of your hearts. But parents much more fre- 
quently see the vices of their children than 
their virtues. And even should your child- 
ren prove amiable and promising, you might 



20 



live to be the wretched witness of their suf- 
ferings. Some parents have felt unutterable 
agonies of this kind. God may have taken 
the lamented objects of your affection from 
the evil to come." 

A mother, suddenly convinced that her 
child was dying, sent for a man of God to 
come and pray for the child's life. "Shall I 
not pray," said he, " that the will of the Lord 
may be done, and that you may have strength 
to suffer all that holy will?" " No," she 
answered in the agony of her heart, " no, no ! 
I want my child to live. Pray for his life, or 
do not pray at all." The child lived, and 
lived to be a man, a great man; but oh, how 
wicked ! and to pierce that mother's heart 
with pangs of anguish which made that night 
almost a night of joy, when she would not 
let her infant die. We do not know from 
what our infants are saved, when they are 
saved from draining the cup of life. 

" In another life," says Fenelon, " we shall 
see and understand the wonders of His good- 
ness that have escaped us in this ; and we 
shall rejoice at what has made us weep on 
earth. Alas ! in our present darkness, we 
cannot see either our true good or evil. If 
God were to gratify our desires, it would be 



21 



our ruin. He saves us by breaking the ties 
that bind us to earth. "We complain because 
God loves us better than we know how to love 
ourselves. We weep because he has taken 
those whom we love away from temptation 
and sin. God takes the poisonous cup from 
our hands, and we weep as a child weeps 
when its mother takes away the shining wea- 
pon with which it would pierce its own 
breast. 

"Oh! consider, ere you accuse Providence 
for the stroke, that this death, apparently so 
untimely, is possibly the greatest instance 
toward you both of the mercy and love of 
God. The creature so dear to you may have 
been taken from some sad reverse of fortune, 
or from the commission of some great crime, 
which might have endangered his salvation. 
To secure this, God has removed him from 
temptation. The pang of separation is indeed 
most bitter, yet our merciful Father does not 
needlessly afflict his creatures. He wounds 
only to heal the diseases of our souls. Let 
us, then, in the hour of our calamity, hold 
fast by this conviction, and say with Job, 
4 Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' 
His mercy can be my support here, and my 
recompense hereafter." 



22 



This is the spirit of Christian submission to 
the will of Heaven. With such a spirit is 
the grace that says, "Even so, Father, for so 
it seemeth good in thy sight." And this same 
holy Fenelon was called to the trial of his 
faith. Standing by the coffin of one whom 
he most tenderly loved, and for whom he 
would most cheerfully have died a thousand 
deaths, he cried : 

" There he lies, and all my worldly happi- 
ness lies dead with him. But if the turning 
of a straw would call him back to life, I 
would not for ten thousand worlds be the 
turner of that straw, in opposition to the will 
of God." 

"I have had six children," said Mr. Eliot, 
" and I bless God for his free grace, they are 
all with Christ, or in Christ ; and my mind is 
now at rest concerning them. My desire was 
that they should have served Christ on earth ; 
but if God will choose to have them serve him 
in heaven, I have nothing to object to it. His 
will be done." 

Yes, I will say so likewise : His will be 
done. It is the best and wisest will ; and 
though it does darken all my prospects, and 
disappoint a thousand cherished hopes, I 
know that he who has dene it doeth all 



23 



things well. I can trust him for this, as I 
have never trusted him yet, when his pro- 
mises have failed. 

"I sincerely sympathize with you," says 
Dr. Erskine, to a friend who had lost an only 
son, " in your heavy trial. I have drunk 
deep of the same cup ; of nine sons, only one 
survives. From what I repeatedly felt, I can 
form an idea what you must feel. I cannot, 
I dare not say, weep not. Jesus wept at the 
grave of Lazarus, and surely he allows you 
to weep. But oh, let hope and joy mitigate 
your heaviness. I know not how this shall 
work for your good ; but it is enough that 
God knows. He that said, 'All things shall 
work together for good to them that love 
God,' excepts not from this promise the sorest 
trial. Tou devoted your son to God; you 
cannot doubt that he accepted the surrender. 
If he has been hid in the chamber of the 
grave from the evil of sin and from the evil 
of suffering, let not your eye be evil, when 
God is good. What you chiefly wished for 
him, and prayed on his behalf, was spiritual 
and heavenly blessings. If the greatest thing 
you wished for is accomplished, at the season 
and in the manner Infinite Wisdom saw best, 
refuse not to be comforted. You know not 



24 



what work and what joy haye been waiting 
for him in that other world." 

An old tomb-stone bears this epitaph, and 
one might think an angel whispers it to a 
mourning mother's ear : 

" Weep not, my mother, weep not ; I am blest, 
But must leave heaven, if I come to thee ; 
For I am where the weary are at rest, 
The wicked cease from troubling. Come to me" 

*'*:.*.-.* 

I know there are thousands of hearts that 
will read these chapters, not with sympathy 
only, but with comfort and sacred peace. 
There is scarcely a house in the world, into 
which the sorrow has not come which follows 
the death of a child. It is almost literally 
true — 

" There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there ; 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair." 

The child is dead. Our child is dead. Let 
us now go to the book of God, and learn its 
lessons in the time of our affliction. 



CHAPTER II. 

<£att X hvirxQ j)tm fiacfc again ? 

The child of David, the bard and king, was 
dead. His son, his favorite son, Ms precious, 
well-beloved, best-beloved son, was dead. For 
seven long, anxious days and nights, while the 
scale trembled in suspense, he had fasted and 
wept. Kings 7 children die : 

« Death, with impartial fate, 



Knocks at the palace door and cottage gate." 

The crown often rests on an aching head, and 
the royal purple covers a sad heart, when the 
messenger of the grave steals into the king's 
chamber, and stops the breath of his babes. 
It is so in ours. 

The kind attendants of the stricken father 
reasoned wisely, as they reason who do not 
understand the power of true religion. They 
said among themselves : He was weeping and 
praying while the child was yet alive ; how he 
will vex himself, how much greater will be 
his anguish, now the child is dead ! 

They mistook the man. Tney judged him 



26 . 

by their own standard, and were wrong. The 
pious father drew from a deeper fountain, and 
found waters they knew not of. He reasoned 
on other principles than those which lie on 
the surface of things, and he was strengthened. 
He saw the servants whispering, and thought 
it was probably all over with the child. It 
was a sign that death was in the house, when 
even the servants would not speak above their 
breath. The dead cannot hear, but the living 
are still when death is at hand. 

And David asked, "Is the child dead?" 
And they answered, "He is dead." 
Then David arose from the earth, and 
washed and anointed himself, and changed 
his apparel, and came into the house of the Lord, 

AND WORSHIPPED. 

Then he came to his own house, and when 
he required, they set bread before him, and 
he did eat. And the servants were filled with 
wonder that a father thus stricken with grief 
should so suddenly find comfort in his sorrow ; 
and they said unto him, 

"What thing is this that thou hast done ? 
Thou didst fast and weep for the child while 
it was alive, but when the child was dead, 
thou didst arise and eat bread." 

And David answered, "While the child was 



27 

yet alive, I fasted and wept ; for 1 said, 'Who 
can tell whether God will be gracious to me, 
that the child may live?' But now he is dead, 
wherefore should I fast ? Can I bring him 
back again? I shall go to him, but he shall 
not return to me." 

11 Can I bring him bach again?" A sad 
inquiry. Can I bring him back again ? Not 
Would I? Perhaps he would. Perhaps we 
would. But CAN I? Had tears availed to 
save, the child would not have died. Had 
prayer prevailed, the boy would yet be living, 
the joy of his parents' hearts, and the light of 
their eyes. But he is dead. He is gone. 
Could human skill avert the death-blow, he 
would have been saved. But all was done 
that skill could do, and yet he died. And 
there he lies. Can I bring him to life again ? 
I may weep, but my tears fall on his icy 
brow, and he feels them not. His heart is 
still. He breathes no more. The love and 
wit of men are alike in vain to restore the 
spirit of this lifeless clay. Speak to it, and it 
hears not. Kiss it, and its lips are cold. Press 
it to your bosom, and it is not warmed. The 
child is dead, dead; and can I bring it back 
again ? Ah, if I could ! If rivers of waters 
running down my eyes, if oceans of tears 



28 



would float Ms spirit back to this deserted 
shell that once was animated with his precious 
soul, I would weep day and night for my 
departed. 

But it is fruitless. And it is not the part 
of a rational being to expend the energies of 
his nature on that which avails him nothing. 
This may be the least and lowest source of 
comfort that reason offers to a mind distressed, 
but it is the dictate of wisdom, and grace adds 
its sanctions to the conclusion forced upon us 
by the law of nature. It is the will of God, 
and we cannot change the purpose if we 
would. 

We cannot bring him back again. Then 
and therefore let us lay his ashes in their kin- 
dred dust, close the green turf oyer his moul- 
dering form, and turn to the book of God for 
consolation in the day of our calamity. 



CHAPTER IE. 
J^tz in not lost, tgtmgf) gone* 

It is clearly revealed that God employs the 
spirits whom he has made, to minister unto 
those whom he delights to tend with peculiar 
care. With the mode of angelic or spiritual 
intercourse, we are not acquainted. That 
disembodied spirits, the evil and the good, are 
permitted to reach our minds and exert a 
power on our spirits, is not to be doubted, 
though we may be unable to respond to that 
influence, and, at the moment of its communi- 
cation, may be unconscious of its presence. 

" Millions of spiritual beings walk the earth 
unseen, both when we wake and when we 
sleep." And we believe, with many others, 
that if we were suddenly divested of this 
mortal, we should find ourselves in a vast 
amphitheatre, reaching to the throne of God, 
filled with spirits, the unseen witnesses, the 
clouds of witnesses with whom we are encom- 
passed continually. There is a place where 
the Most High dwells in light that no man 
can approach, where the darkness of exces- 



30 

sive brightness hangs oyer and around His 
throne, making Heaven, as Heaven is not 
elsewhere in the universe of God. But 
neither time nor place may with propriety be 
affirmed of spiritual existence. When Gabriel 
leaves his throne to execute the high behests 
of the Almighty, there is no intervening time 
or space between his departure and his pre- 
sence, where his work is to be done. We use 
the terms that are adapted to our mode of 
existence, and are lost when we attempt to 
express the life of those whose nature is in 
another scale and order of beings than our 
own. It is, therefore, scriptural and rational 
to suppose that the spirits of our departed 
friends are around us by day and night ; not 
away from God: his presence fills immensity; 
he is everywhere present. If an angel or 
the soul of a saint should take the wings of 
the morning, and dwell in the uttermost part 
of the sea, there to be with us or with those we 
love, even there the gracious presence of God 
would dwell, and the sanctified would find 
Heaven as blessed and glorious as in the 
temple of which the Lamb is the light. 

We must be near to one another, to see and 
be seen, to hear and be heard. Our bodily 
organs are of necessity restricted, and hence 



9 



1 



we have the impression that spirits must be 
bound by the same fetters. But this is an 
illusion that vanishes, when we reflect that 
speech, and sound, and sight, are attributes 
belonging to spirits only to accommodate us 
in our conception of communication with 
them. Thought is the language of the soul. 
Words are needed to convey that thought 
through the organs of the body to another 
soul. If there were no intervening body, I 
know not that the soul has any need of words. 
Sympathy is doubtless felt through all the 
spiritual world, without those channels of 
intelligence that we must open and explore. 
There is joy among the angels when a sinner 
repents, or a saint expires, long before the 
news is whispered from throne to throne, 
through the palaces of the skies. The thrill 
is more than electric. It is instant and every 
where in the empire of holy mind. 

If, then, there is such conscious sympathy 
among the spirits of the blest, who will deny 
that they, whose angels do always behold the 
face of the Father, are also conversant with 
those whom they have left on earth? The 
dead are with us and around us, and, though 
gone, are not lost. Wherever, in the world 
of spirits, God may have fixed the habitation 



32 



of Lis throne , it is right to believe that his 
essential presence is every where, and his 
saints are where they can be the happiest, and 
best perform his high and holy will. 

All this proceeds upon the doctrine, that 
the souls of infants do immediately pass into 
glory, when released from the prison of the 
flesh. This truth is too plainly taught in the 
Holy Scriptures, and is too firmly rooted in 
the human heart, to be doubted. " Of such is 
the kingdom of heaven," was said by Him 
who said, " Suffer the little children to come 
unto me." The royal prophet evidently recog- 
nized this truth, when he comforted himself 
by the assurance that he should meet his 
child again. To me it has always been a 
delightful truth, that these little ones are, in 
great kindness, transplanted to a more conge- 
nial clime, and spared the ills that they must 
meet and buffet in a world of sin. So that I 
have often said, "I thank God when an infant 
dies." But this is gratitude felt only when 
the children of others die. 

Yet it is a blessed thought, that when one 
of our children dies in infancy, it sleeps in 
Jesus. We are sure of one in Heaven. The 
rest may grow up in sin, and die in sin, and 
be lost, but one is safe. Thanks to God, the 



33 

lost is found, the dead is alive. "The L*>rd 
gave, and the Lord hath taken away ; blessed 
be the name of the Lord." "They only can 
be said to possess a child for ever, who have 
lost one in infancy/' 



CHAPTER IV. 
XnUnitt SUtetrom toofc jjtm atoaa>* 

"My thoughts are not your thoughts, nei- 
ther are your ways my ways, saith the Lord." 
The truth of this we feel when clouds and 
darkness hang around the throne. And then 
we listen again, and the same voice adds, 
"For as the heavens are higher than the 
earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, 
and my thoughts than your thoughts." 

Nothing but infinite presumption would 
challenge the wisdom of the divine dercees. 
What is man, that he should venture to doubt 
that He who knows all things from the begin- 
ning, before whom the future, with all its 
changes, is for ever present, better understands 
than we what is the most for his glory, and 
the good of his government? Could we 
behold the varied and benign results that, in 
bis providence and grace, are to be the fruit 
of those events which we regard as painfully 
undesirable ; could we see the glory that they 
will bring eventually to Him whose glory is 
the ultimate and righteous object of all that 



35 



is, so that around the death, of an infant, as 
around the fall of an empire, cluster consider- 
ations that bear upon the joys of saints, and 
the services of angels, and the honor of Him 
who sitteth in the Heavens, God over all, we 
would not merely acquiesce in the dispensa- 
tion^ but we should rejoice in it with joy 
unspeakable. It is often the severest portion 
of our afflictions, that we cannot see why they 
are sent upon us. Our faith is demanded, 
that we may believe where we cannot see. 
"What thou knowest not now, thou shalt 
know hereafter." " Blessed are they who 
have not seen, and yet have believed." That 
faith is grounded on our knowledge that He 
who orders all our ways is too wise to be 
mistaken. His purposes are eternal. When 
this earth shall have become wearied with 
rolling, and all the stars have fallen from 
their places, away in the future, millions of 
ages beyond the judgment of the great day, 
the death of a babe in the house will be 
working-out its results in the eternal purposes 
of God. We may not see till then, perhaps 
not then. How far off it may be, none can 
tell. But it is all right, and we shall find it 
to be so hereafter. It requires no very exalted 
order of faith to adopt this sentiment, and let 



36 

tlie soul lie down on it confidingly, and look 
up trustingly, and smile serenely, when the 
hand of God presses heavily. 

Oh, let ray trembling soul be still, 
While darkness veils this mortal eye, 

And wait thy wise, thy holy will, 
Wrapped yet in tears and mystery. 

T cannot, Lord, thy purpose see, 

Yet all is well, since ruled by thee. 

Thus, trusting in thy love, I tread 

The narrow path of duty on. 
What though some cherished joys are fled ? 

"What though some flattering dreams are gone f 
Yet purer, brighter joys remain; 
Why should my spirit then complain ? 



CHAPTER V. 



"Like as a father pitieth his children, so 
the Lord pitieth them that fear him. For he 
knoweth our frame ; he remembereth that we 
are dust." 

The sovereignty of God we are bound, as 
his creatures, -to acknowledge and adore. He 
has a right to do with his own what he will ; 
and when to this we join his wisdom, it is 
easy to construct an argument that compels 
submission. So the afflicted father, whose 
example is our theme, was affected when he 
said, U I was dumb, I opened not my mouth, 
because thou didst it." And then he cried 
out, under the same emotion, "Eemoye thy 
stroke away from me : I am consumed by the 
blow of thy hand." This is not the highest 
style of Christian confidence. It is right ; but 
it is not the sweet and joyous trust of him 
who rose from the earth when his child was 
dead, and washed, and changed his apparel, 
and went into the house of God and wor- 
shipped. He is not only our God, he is our 



38 

Father. He taught us by the lips of Ms 
Son to call him our Father ; and " whom the 
Lord loveth, he chasteneth." "We have had 
fathers of our flesh who corrected us, and we 
gave them reverence ; shall we not much 
rather be in subjection unto the Father of 
spirits, and live? For they verily for a few 
days chastened us after their own pleasure ; 
but he for our profit, that we might be par- 
takers of his holiness." 

We have chastened our own children. We 
did it not in anger, much less in malice, or 
with a desire to do an injury to the one we 
loved. And when our Father's hand is laid 
on us, it is surely our duty to bear in mind 
that his love for his children infinitely excels 
our love for those who climb on our knees 
and hang on our necks. Oh, was it not love 
that gave the child ; that gave us such a child ; 
that made it lovely in our eyes, clothing it 
with beauty as with a garment, and shedding 
upon its form and spirit those gentle, winning 
ways that wound about our hearts, and ren- 
dered the object of our affections just the 
child whom we would wish to keep? We 
blessed God for giving. But it is the same 
God who hath taken away. He never 
changes. And faith assures us that it is 



39 



greater love that takes than gives. Was not 
the lamb his own ? And did he not gather it 
to his own bosom ? If he had not loved it, 
he would not have taken it. Was it not his 
own jewel ? ; And did he not set it as a gem 
in his own crown ? Let the thought of mur- 
muring be rebuked by the following beauti- 
ful story from the Mishna of the Eabbins : 

" During the absence of the Eabbi Meir, 
his two sons died, both of them of uncommon 
beauty, and enlightened in the divine law. 
His wife bore them to her chamber, and laid 
them upon her bed. When Eabbi Meir 
returned, his first inquiry was for his sons. 
His wife reached to him a goblet ; he praised 
the Lord at the going out of the Sabbath, 
drank, and again asked, { Where are my sons?' 
1 They are not far off,' she said, placing food 
before him that he might eat. He was in a 
genial mood, and when he had said grace after 
meat, she thus addressed him: 'Eabbi, with 
thy permission, I would fain propose to thee 
one question.' 'Ask it then, my love,' replied 
he. 'A few days ago, a person intrusted 
some jewels to my custody, and now he 
demands them ; should I give them back to 
him?' 'This is a question,' said the Eabbi, 
1 which my wife should not have thought it 



40 

necessary to ask. "What ! wouldst thou hesi- 
tate or be reluctant to restore to every one 
his own?' 'No,' she replied, 'but yet I 
thought it best not to restore them without 
acquainting thee therewith.' She then led 
him to the chamber, and, stepping to the bed, 
took the white covering from the dead bodies. 
'Ah! my sons, my sons,' loudly lamented 
their father. c My sons ! the light of my eyes, 
and the light of my understanding : I was 
your father, but you were my teachers in the 
law.' The mother turned away and wept 
bitterly. At length she took her husband by 
the hand and said, 'Kabbi, didst thou not 
teach me that we must not be reluctant to 
restore that which was intrusted to our keep- 
ing? See ; the Lord gave, and the Lord hath 
taken away, and blessed be the name of the 
Lord.' ' Blessed be the name of the Lord,' 
echoed the Eabbi, 'and blessed be his holy 
name for ever.' " 

We should esteem it a mark of honor and 
peculiar regard, if the king should choose one 
of our children to be taken into his family, 
and trained for the throne. There are thou- 
sands of little children besides ours, whom 
G od might have taken, if he had been pleased ; 
but he loved ours so much, and loved us so 

I 



41 

much, that lie came into our humble house- 
hold, and gently bore away from our arms 
our infant child, and took him into his own 
family, and placed him among the brightest 
and best, and made him a king. There is 
love in that — precious love — a Father's love. 
There isdove in thus chastising us when we 
wander, and He would draw us back. I have 
seen a shepherd striving to drive his flock 
into the fold, while they would refuse to 
enter, and prefer to run off into the highways, 
where they were in danger of being torn and 
lost. At length, when wearied with efforts to 
urge them in, he takes a lamb into his arms, 
and folds it gently in his bosom, and walks 
into the inclosure,, while the mother follows, 
and the whole flock come on, and are soon 
folded in the place of safety and peace. So 
have I seen a family whom God would win 
to his house and home in heaven ; but they 
became worldly-minded, and wandered away 
among the dangerous paths of a deceitful, 
unsatisfying earth; and when his calls and 
commands had been lost upon them, he has 
taken their lamb, their pet lamb, their young- 
est child, and laid it in his own bosom ; and 
then, then, how readily the mother and all 
the little flock have folloAved him to the gate 



42 

of the celestial city, into which lie lias entered 
with, their darling in his arms ! 

It was love, infinite love, that ordered such 
a plan ; and it will be felt the more, the more 
the heart is softened, and the eyes are opened 
to behold the hand that does it. 

" Before I was afflicted, I went astray.'' "It 
is good for me that I have been afflicted." So 
David was able to say while yet in the house 
of his pilgrimage; and so shall we say, if not 
now, when we come to sit down by the river 
of the water of life, our children with us, 
broken households reunited, and talk over 
the trials of the way by which we have been 
led, and admire and adore the grace that 
directed the blow that laid our early hopes in 
ruins, blasted our fond domestic joys, buried 
our babes, and broke our hearts, 



CHAPTER VI. 

"We desire our children's happiness; we 
pray and labor for it ; we are willing to 
make great sacrifices of our comfort to secure 
it for them. In sickness, we forget our own 
health and lives for the sake of theirs. We 
watch them, and toil for them, and would die 
for them. We more than die for them some- 
times. 

And if we grieve when their happiness 
calls them from us, our grief is selfish ; it is 
for ourselves, and not for them, we mourn. 
But we should not mourn, if we knew what 
he has gained whom we have lost. Instantly 
on being released from the body, the spirit of 
the infant returns to Grod who gave it. En- 
dowed with capacities that, if permitted to 
expand and improve on earth, would in fifty 
years, perhaps, have made him wiser than New- 
ton, or Plato, or Solomon, it rushes into the 
mysteries of the divine Mind, ^nd, on wings 
of thought such as angels use in rising into 
the regions of knowledge that pass all under- 



44 



standing, lie begins his flight, and stretches 
onward and right onward for ever. He never 
tires. No weakness, no sickness, no pain, to 
make him pause or falter in his upward way. 
He bears himself into the presence of the 
Omniscient, becomes a disciple in the school 
of Christ, flies on with Moses, and David, and 
John, and learns from them the wonderful 
things of heaven, the mysteries of the king- 
dom ; and thus, ever advancing, he rises 
nearer and still nearer to the comprehension 
of Him who is still infinitely above and 
beyond his last and loftiest reach. And what 
a change is this ! Yesterday, an infant in his 
mother's arms, or a child amused with a rattle 
or a straw ; to-day, a seraph in the midst of 
seraphim, burning with excessive glory in 
the presence of God. 

Happiness is the fruit of holiness. "Washed 
in the blood of the everlasting covenant, and 
sanctified by the Holy Ghost, he is now 
among the holy, as happy as any who are 
there. Those faculties of mind, expanded in 
the atmosphere of heaven, are employed in 
the praise of that grace that called him so 
soon from Nature's darkness into the glorious 
light of eternity ; the gloom of sin scarce shad- 
ing the brightness of his rising sun, before the 



45 

noon of heaven burst upon liim. As if an 
angel had lost his way, and for a few days had 
wandered among the sons of men, till his 
companions suddenly discovered him in this 
wilderness, and caught him, and bore him off 
to his native residence among the blessed ; so 
the child is taken kindly in the morning of 
its wanderings, and gathered among the holy, 
and brought home to his Father's house. How 
pure his spirit now ; how happy he is now ! 

"Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there 
Around my Saviour stand ;" 

and among them I behold the infant forms 
of those whose little graves were wet with the 
tears of parental love. I hear their infant 
voices in the song. Do you see in the midst 
of that bright and blessed throng the child 
you mourn ? I ask not now if you would 
call him back again. I fear you would! 
But I ask you, "What would tempt him back 
again?" Bring out the playthings that he 
loved on earth, the toys that filled his childish 
heart with gladness, and pleased him on the 
nursery floor, the paradise that was ever 
bright when he smiled within it ; hold them 
up, and ask him to throw away his harp, and 
leave the side of his new-found friends, and 



48 

the bosom of his Saviour ; and would he come, 
to be a boy again, to live and laugh and love 
again, to sicken, suffer, die, and perhaps be 
lost ! I think he would stay. I think I 
would shut the door if I saw him coming. 

A father, who had buried the youngest of 
three boys, exclaims, in words familiar : 



t 



"I cannot tell what form is his, 
"What look he weareth now, 
"Nov guess how bright a glory crowns 
His shining seraph-brow. 



"The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, 
The bliss that he doth feel, 
Are numbered with the secret things 
Which God doth not reveal. 

" But I know — for God hath told me this- 
That now he is at rest, 
"Where other blessed infants are, 
On their loving Saviour's breast. 



" Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, 
His bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and pain, 
But his is perfect peace. 

" It may be that the tempter's wiles 
Their souls from bliss can sever ; 
But if our own poor faith fail not, 
He must be ours for ever. 



* 



47 



" When we think of what onr darling is, 
And what he still must be ; 
"When we think on that world's perfect bliss, 
And this world's misery ; 

"When we groan beneath this load of sin, 
And feel this grief and pain ; 
Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, 
Than have him here again" 



CHAPTER VII. 



5$te srfjall see f)im UQain. 



" I shall go to him, but lie shall not 
return to me." 

"Shall we know our friends in heaven ?" 
is a question that I will not here discuss. 
It is to my mind obvious that the person- 
ality of each of us is to be preserved dis- 
tinctly in the world to come; and whether 
the ties that are formed on earth are to be 
reunited and perpetuated there, or not, we 
shall undoubtedly recognize the spirit allied 
to our own, and that once breathed the same 
vital air with us. Those who have died in 
Christ, the Saviour will bring with him ; and 
those who wait his appearance shall meet 
those they loved, when they come in the air 
with their glorified Lord. 

Very true it is, that the Lamb in the midst 
of the throne is the chief attraction of heaven, 
and that all eyes and all hearts will turn 
toward him with infinite longings that are 
never satisfied. 



j 



49 



A pious young man, of ardent filial affec- 
tion, buried his beloved mother, and after- 
wards was frequently heard to say, that one 
of the chief pleasures he anticipated in the 
prospect of heaven was meeting again his 
sainted mother. But that young man, on his 
death-bed, was heard to say, " It seems to me, 
if I am so happy as to enter heaven, that I 
shall wish to spend a thousand years, before I 
think of any thing else, in looking upon my 
Saviour." 

Yes, blessed Saviour; and in thy bosom 
nestles the lamb from our fold. We cannot 
look at thee, without beholding him. We 
cannot think of him, without remembering 
thy sweet words, " Suffer the little children 
to come unto me." 

It is not, then, the illusion of fancy, it is 
the dictate of Christian faith, to look toward 
the holy city, and within its gates of pearl to 
see the little one that has been taken from us, 
now a pure* beatified spirit, robed in celestial 
beauty, with a crown on his head, and a 
harp in his hand, beckoning us to come up 
thither. 

Oh ! it was sweet to hear his voice in the 
glee of infancy ; to feel his lips as they pressed 
the fount of life, or met our owr in the kiss 



50 

of parental love ; to listen to Ms infant prayer, 
or his gentle murmur, when we hummed the 
evening lullaby. 

" His presence was like sunshine, 
Sent down to gladden earth ; 
To comfort us in all our griefs, 
And sweeten all our mirth." 

But he is brighter, fairer, happier there ; 
and we shall soon rejoin him in our Father's 
house, a reunited family, all the more blessed 
because we have been for a little while sepa- 
rated, and then we shall part no more for ever. 
This is the comfort of faith, the assurance of 
hope ; and when we come to sit down in the 
mansions on high, with our children around 
us, those children over whose early graves we 
wept in bitterness, we shall be amazed to 
think how short has been the separation, and 
how blessed the love that ordered the part- 
ing, and permitted the meeting, in the pre- 
sence of Grod. 

" Oh ! when a mother meets on high 
The babe she lost in infancy, 
Hath she not then, for pains and fears, 

The day of wo, the watchful night, 
For all her sorrows, all her tears, 

An over-payment of delight?" 



CHAPTER VIII. 



Setter from ac JFrtetifcu 

" My Dear Friend : — I have just heard of 
your bereavement, and hasten to offer you 
my Christian sympathies. I know, indeed, 
that no creature can give you effectual com- 
fort, nor do I propose to do for you any office 
which might not be performed by the hum- 
blest servant of Christ. The sooner you look 
away from earth, and set your hope in God, 
the better for you. He is our buckler, and 
shield, and salvation. He is a very present 
help in time, of trouble. Compared with our 
necessities, or with God, all earthly friends 
and resources are poor things. " Cease from 
man, whose breath is in his nostrils." Some- 
times the very tears of our friends, by show- 
ing us how vain is human aid, deepen our 
sorrows. 

1 'Our heavenly Father is full of kindness, 
mercy, and grace. He does not afflict will- 
ingly. He is a sun and shield ; he will give 
grace and glory ; and no good thing will he 
withhold from them that walk uprightly. 



52 

' There is more comfort in one drop that dis- 
tils from God, than from ten thousand rivers 
that flow from creature delights.' Are you 
an heir of God, and a joint-heir with Christ ? 
then c Behold what manner of love the Father 
hath bestowed upon us, that we should be 
called the sons of God!' Have you not a 
good Father ? 

"And is not Jesus the very friend you need ? 
To all his people he is of old a Eedeemer and 
Saviour. c In all their affliction he was afflict- 
ed, and the angel of his presence saved them.' 
He says, 'Let not your heart be troubled, 
neither let it be afraid; ye believe in God, 
believe also in me.' He well knows what sor- 
row means. He has felt the keenest pangs. 
He never breaks the bruised reed. He was 
sent to bind up the broken-hearted, and to 
comfort all that mourn. If we suffer with 
him, we shall also reign with him. Blessed 
Saviour ! thou hast said, c Because I live, ye 
shall live also.' At thy bidding I would bear 
all things. I had rather be with thee in a 
dungeon, than with thy foes in a palace. Let 
me, in my measure, fill up that which is 
behind of thy sufferings. In due time thou 
wilt make all things plain. Let me but at 
last be with thee, and I will rejoice in tribula- 



53 

tion. Let my sins be surely pardoned through, 
thy blood, and I will yield to no fear ; and 
then 

' The glory of my glory still shall be, 
To give all glory and myself to Thee.' 

" He will not leave you comfortless. It is 
the very office of his Spirit to cheer and 
encourage our hearts. How marvellously 
can this Spirit of love and of holiness chase 
away our darkness ! He giveth songs in the 
night. He is the oil of gladness. His grace, 
and pity, and love are infinite, eternal, and 
unchangeable. Get the help of the Spirit, 
and nothing can undo you. 

" This is the very time for you to plead and 
rest upon the provisions of that covenant 
which is ordered in all things and sure, which 
is both new and everlasting, which is sealed 
with blood, confirmed with an oath, estab- 
lished upon the best of promises, and ordained 
in the hands of a Mediator who cannot fail 
nor be discouraged. In this covenant is no 
flaw. Under it there can be no failure. Eest 
in it, yea, glory in it, and remember all it 
promises and secures. 

u But still you weep for your little one. 
Blessed be God, it is no sin to weep. Jesus 
wept. Yet, while nature pours out her tears, 



54 

let grace triumph. I have long thought that 
the grief of God's children for the death of 
their infant offspring should be very mode- 
rate. The view taken of the state of such by 
the best Reformed Churches, has always been 
cheering. Hear the Synod of Dort : ' Seeing 
that we are to judge of the will of God by 
his Word, which testifies that the children of 
believers are holy, not indeed by nature, but 
by the benefit of the gracious covenant, in 
which they are comprehended along with 
their parents, pious parents ought not to 
doubt of the election and salvation of their 
children whom God hath called in infancy 
out of this life.' And our own Confession 
very clearly and delightfully states how they 
are saved : ' Elect infants, dying in infancy, 
are regenerated and saved by Christ, through 
the Spirit, who worketk when, and where, 
and how he pleaseth.' If, therefore, you still 
weep, weep as one full of hope, and peace, 
and comfort. 

" Your present trial will furnish you with 
many an occasion of showing your readiness 
to perform two duties united by the Psalmist : 
' Trust in the Lord, and do good.' It can hardly 
be doubted that, great as your affliction is, 
you ca/i easily find others who need your 



55 

sympathy and aid.' "Visit them; write to 
them ; speak comfortably to them ; weep with 
them ; if they need it, give them alms ; in 
short, be as useful as you can. In watering 
others, you shall be watered. Beware of 
moping oyer your trials. 

"It is a painful but universal conviction 
among Christians, that they need correction. 
Their tempers, their tongues, their lives, their 
inconstancy, all show that fewer chastisements 
would leave them in a sad state. I know 
not what the Lord would accomplish in you 
by this heavy stroke ; but sure I am that he 
would cause all things to work together for 
good to them that love him. You have found 
former trials good. This, too, shall yield the 
peaceable fruit of righteousness. 

"And as to your loved one, has not God 
already done for it more than you and all the 
world could have done in a thousand years ? 
He has made it a king and a priest unto God, 
to serve him day and night in heaven. If 
Hannah was willing to give up Samuel to 
serve in the earthly tabernacle, surely you 
should be willing to resign your darling to 
serve in the temple not made with hands, 
especially as you hope so soon to follow him, 
and be for ever with him. 



56 

"At most, will not all this darkness soon be 
gone ? * "Weeping may endure for a night, 
but joy cometh in the morning.' i It is but a 
little while, and he that shall come will come, 
and will not tarry/ l The time is short.' Let 
us wait patiently for him. His deliverances 
are as seasonable as they are effectual. "When 
you reach the blessed home above, you will 
be the first to say that God hath done all 
things well. 

"And now, if the tempter should annoy and 
insult you, saying God has forsaken you, 
believe him not, but say, 'Eejoice not against 
me, O mine enemy ; when I fall, I shall arise ; 
when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a 
light unto me. I will bear the indignation of 
the Loed, because I have sinned against him, 
until he plead my cause, and execute judg- 
ment for me. He will bring me forth to the 
light, and I shall behold his righteousness.' 

" Yery truly yours, 

"W. S. P." 



J 



CHAPTER IX. 
&too Years in JQeaben. 

Two years ago to-day lie went to heaven. 

With, us they have been long, long years, 
since we heard the sound of his sweet voice, 
and the merry laugh that burst from his glad 
heart. 

He was the youngest of our flock. Three 
summers he had been with us, and oh ! he was 
brighter and sunnier than any summer day of 
them all. But he died as the third year of 
his life was closing. The others were older 
than he ; and all we had of childhood's glee 
and gladness was buried when we laid him in 
the grave. Since then our hearth has been 
desolate, and our hfearts have been yearning 
for the boy who is gone. "Gone, but not lost" 
we have said a thousand times ; and we think 
of him ever as living and blessed in another 
place not far from us. 

Two years in heaven ! They do not mea- 
sure time in that world; there are no weeks, 
or months, or years ; but all the time we have 
been mourning his absence here, he has been 



58 

happy there. And when we think of what 
he has been enjoying, and the rapid progress 
he has been making, we feel that it is well for 
him that he has been taken away. 

Two years with angels! They have been 
his constant companions, his teachers too; 
and from them he has drawn lessons of know- 
ledge and of love. The cherubim are said to 
excel in knowledge ; while love glows more 
ardently in the breasts of seraphim. He has 
been two years in the company of both, and 
must have become very like them. 

Two years with the redeemed! They have 
told him of the Saviour, in whose blood they 
washed their robes, and whose righteousness 
is their salvation. The child, while with us, 
knew little of Jesus and his dying love ; but 
he has heard of him now, and has learned to 
love him who said, " Suffer little children to 
come unto me." There are some among 
those redeemed, who would have loved him 
here, had they been living with us ; but they 
went to glory before him, and have welcomed 
him now to their company. I am not sure 
that they know him as our child ; and yet do 
we love to think that he is in the arms of 
those who have gone from our arms, and 
that thus broken families are reunited around 
the throne of God and the Lamb. 



59 

Two years with Christ! It is joy to know 
that our child has been two years with the 
Saviour, in his immediate presence ; learning 
of him, and making heaven vocal with songs 
of rapture and love. The blessed Saviour 
took little children in his arms when he was 
here on earth, and he takes them in his bosom 
there. Blessed Jesus ! blessed children ! bless- 
ed child ! 

He often wept when he was with us ; he 
suffered much before he died: seven days 
and nights he was torn with fierce convul- 
sions ere his soul yielded and fled to heaven. 
But now for two years he has not wept. He 
has known no pain for two years. That little 
child, who was pleased with a rattle, now 
meets with angels and feels himself at home. 
He walks among the tallest spirits that bend 
in the presence of the Infinite, and is as free 
and happy as any who are there. And when 
we think of joys that are his, we are more 
than willing that he should stay where he 
now dwells, though our house is darkened by 
the shadow of his grave, and our hearts are 
aching all the time for his return. Long and 
weary have been the years without him ; but 
they have been blessed years to him in hea- 
ven. "Even so, Father." "Not our will, 
but thine be done." 



CHAPTER X 



^tfter Years, 



Twelve years and more have passed since 
the preceding pages were first published- 
They have been abroad in the world on a 
mission of consolation, and oh! how many 
hearts have been soothed in sorrow, and com- 
forted by the ministry of these words ! 

Again they are to go on their errand of 
mercy. The heart from which they first 
went out has found that the words of Jesus 
are indeed true, " Blessed are they that mourn, 
for they shall be comforted." The Saviour 
is the great healer, and he takes time to 
work his sovereign cures. He leads his fol- 
lowers in paths they know not, and purifies 
them for himself .by trials such as they would 
not choose. He prayed for himself, that if it 
were possible the cup might pass from him, 
but it pleased his Father that he should drink 
it to the dregs. And if he could not be 
spared, should his children murmur when 



61 



they are called to taste the bitter waters of 
affliction ? In time, and if not in time, cer- 
tainly in eternity, they will see that it is more 
than good to be afflicted, and the best of all 
the means employed for their sanctification 
were the sorrows through which they were 
called to pass. 

And as these twelve years and more have 
been wearing away, the sorrow that gave 
birth to these pages has become a more hal- 
lowed, chastened, and gentle emotion. The 
child of our affections is advancing in the 
beauty and blessedness and glory of the 
heavenly state, and daily becomes more at 
home among the angels and saints. Others 
whom we love have gone there and joined 
the company of the redeemed, and we think 
of our child, a child indeed, but a companion 
of our departed and now glorified friends. 
More and more willing are we that he should 
stay where he is. More and more do we long 
to be absent from the body and present with 
the Lord. 

An unknown friend, in the midst of deep 
personal affliction, heard the following sen- 
tences fall from the lips of Eev. Dr. P. D. 
Griuiey, in his pulpit in "Washington City, 
and when I learned how full of consolation 



62 

and truth, they were, I asked the privilege of 
repeating them here. 

It is Grod who has taken your loyed one 
away. It was not an enemy that did it, but 
a friend; not an erring mortal, but He who 
sees the end from the beginning, and doeth 
all things well. Bow at his feet, and say with 
him who lost his possessions, his servants, 
and all his children in a single day, " The 
Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away." 
Acknowledge, with unreserved submission, 
that he has taken but what he gave ; that he 
has only asserted his right as a sovereign, 
and done what he would with his own. Nay 
more, confide in his wisdom, confide in his 
faithfulness, confide in his love. The hour 
of sorrow is the time for faith to take her 
boldest flight and achieve her brightest vic- 
tory. Let her soar above the clouds to the 
eternal sunshine beyond, the sunshine of a 
Father's mercy. Perhaps I should rather 
say, Let her fix her eye upon the bright bow 
of promise that spans the clouds, and hear 
the voice that comes down through the dark- 
ness and says in words of parental counsel 
and tenderness: "My son, despise not thou 
the chastening of the Lord, nor faint when 



63 

thou art rebuked of him ; for whom the Lord 
loveth, he chasteneth." It is the voice of 
your heavenly Father, nay more, of your Re-' 
deemer and your God. Let it hush every 
murmuring thought, quiet every rebellious 
feeling, and call out from your very souls 
that submissive and memorable utterance of 
the Saviour: "Even so, Father, for so it 
seems good in thy sight." "He maketh sore 
and bindeth up ; he woundeth, and his hands 
make whole." He has smitten, not to repel 
you, but to draw you nearer to himself. 
And how must you approach him? Not 
merely to acknowledge his. hand, his sov- 
ereignty, his wisdom, and his faithfulness; 
not merely to supplicate his assistance and 
his mercy; but to worship and to bless him. 
Oh ! this is the highest triumph of faith and 
piety — to look up from the depths of afflic- 
tion, and say not merely, " The Lord gave 
and the Lord hath taken away" — that may he 
but a cold and heartless acknowledgment — • 
but "Blessed be the name of the Lord;" let 
him be praised for this very dealing. I need- 
ed it, and he, in his loving kindness, has or- 
dered it for my good. Here is the point to 
which your redeeming God would bring you. 
Have you reached it yet ? If not, then pray, 



64 



and pray very earnestly, that you may not 
fail to reach, it ; for that is the point where 
trial accomplishes its perfect work, and se- 
cures for those who are exercised thereby 
u a far more exceeding and eternal weight of 
glory-" 



CHAPTER XL 

& German J$totf)er. 

A smitten" household in Germany is 
brought to our sight in this letter from the 
husband and father. It is highly wrought, 
but the mother, crushed under the sudden 
and great sorrow, sees the Saviour and finds 
peace in leaving her child in his bosom. 
Blessed trust ! 

" My wife trembled all over, and sat down 
with the child in her arms. O God! that 
can not be true. He will not punish us so 
cruelly ; oh ! pray, do pray that he will spare 
us the child. I took our Prayer-Book and 
sat down beside the dull lamp. I began, half 
weeping, to read a prayer for the sick, and 
read devotionally. ' Ah ! not so, Peter, not 
so,' she said, l that is of no use, there is noth- 
ing about our child in it; pray to him to 
spare her.' I turned to another prayer and 
read yet more devotionally. ' Ah ! that is no 
good ; pray out of yourself whatever- comes 
into your head, only about the child!' I 
rose up from the lamp, my heart full of 



66 



anguish, anguish about the child, anguish 
that I could not pray. I never had prayed 
out of my own heart. Then, in her agony, 
my wife fell upon her knees, and called upon 
Grod. Father ! leave us the child, do not 
take it back again ; it shall be thine, shall be 
our angel and thine, shall be the Saviour's 
own through all eternity. "We will carry it 
in our hands as thy precious gift; will trouble 
no more, but will bear all humbly and pa- 
tiently that thou dost send us ; will look for 
only good from thee. But the child, the 
child! do not take it; leave it for thy Son's 
sake.' Fervently she looked upward, the 
tears streaming over her face, the child in her 
arms pressed close to her heart. It moved, 
and as Madeli looked down, it stretched its 
little limbs once more, opened its eyes full 
upon its mother, a smile passed over its little 
face, and then the eyes slowly closed. The 
smile seemed to wing its way like a little 
angel from the face, and with it the spirit of 
the child had departed too ! Its body moved 
no more ; its eyes were shut for ever ! The 
mother looked up full of reproach to heaven ; 
the convulsion that had left the heart of the 
child seemed now to have fastened upon hers. 
Sobbing violently, she bent over the corpse, 



67 

seeking for life. "When she found no sign, 
she tottered to the bed, laid the body upon 
it, and throwing herself over it, was so over- 
come with anguish that the bed shook under 
her. Grief seized me, too, as with an iron 
clutch; but the state of my wife roused me 
from my stupor. I tried to speak with her, 
but the convulsion would allow no answer, 
and I feared each minute that she must be 
suffocated. At last I succeeded in laying her 
on the bed, and calming her with water. 
She would not have the little body moved 
from her arms, but lay back, silently motion- 
ing me to be still, and not torment her with 
speaking. 

" The first beams of the morning found me 
faint and half-asleep upon a chair; a calm, 
earnest gaze welcomed them from the bed, as 
they fell upon Madeli's folded hands and 
upon the golden curls of our living child. I 
awoke from my sad dreams, and went out 
into the kitchen to prepare something warm 
for us after the night of weeping. But Ma- 
deli held me fast, begging me "not to go, she 
had something to say to me. She could not 
describe to me what she had felt when she 
first knew the child to be dying in her arms. 
For the first time in her life the fountain of 



68 

prayer seemed to be opened within her, and 
she poured out her soul to the Father in hea- 
ven. She felt a strength in her heart as 
though, if she had asked for a kingdom, that 
Father must give it her ! And when she had 
finished, the child was dead. 

"Then she felt as though a burning hand 
tore her heart from her body, as though a 
thousand mountains were hurled down upon 
her breast, as though an unfathomable abyss 
opened to swallow her in infinite darkness. 
Her faith was gone. l There is no God,' a 
voice thundered in her heart. An eternal 
nothingness stared her in the face with unut- 
terable horror. She clung to the little body 
that she, too, might become a corpse, and lose 
consciousness, since man was nothing but a 
growing corpse, with no God, no living eter- 
nity, only an everlasting grave. No one can 
picture to themselves that terrible sensation, 
when one thinks one has clung firmly, lov- 
ingly to heaven, and is seized, as though by 
a sudden madness, that there is no God, and 
every pulse echoes to us the cry : f There is no 
God ; your faith is vain [' ' For a long time,' 
said Madeli, 4 I did not know if I was alive 
or dead. I thought nothing: I could only 
suffer. Gradually consciousness seemed to 



63 



return, but for very long I could not find 
God.' 

"At length it seemed to her as though a 
little spark arose, glimmering faintly, giving 
out very little light; and in the gleam of this 
light she saw again that smile of her child 
which had hovered over its face before it left 
us. Again the child seemed to live, and to 
smile at some one with tenderness and trust. 
Up out of the darkness came a form lovely 
and tender to look upon, to whom the child 
held out its arms. The figure took the child 
on its arm, putting its hand on its head. The 
child's face seemed to become glorified : it 
was as though wings waved from its shoul- 
ders, and its eyes turned to the mother, joy- 
ful and sparkling like carbuncles ! Instantly 
Madeli saw that it was the Saviour who held 
and blest her child, and as she thought it, he 
raised his finger, as though to say, ' Woman, 
if thou hadst had faith V and in that hand 
she saw the marks of the nails, and thought 
how he, too, had known great sorrow, and 
had prayed, L Father, if it be possible, let this 
cup pass from me, yet not my will but thine 
be done ;' and the cup of sorrow did not pass 
from him : he drank it to the last drop, and 
he rose again the third day, as a sign that 



70 

there is a Father in heaven who can hear and 
bless obedience. And as she thought that, 
the light grew larger, and glowed like the sun, 
and the two forms became more heavenly, 
and looked at her with increasing tenderness. 
It was as though whole beams of love pene- 
trated her heart, and in a splendor which her 
eyes could not bear, the Saviour and the 
child both vanished away. 

"By degrees she became convinced that the 
death of the child was not a punishment, but 
a voice from God. And as God had so high- 
ly honored her as to call her through a little 
angel, she would remain consecrated to him ; 
and she thought she should be able. Thus 
was my wife made holy through the child, 
who became to her an angel, and who 
stretched out to her its little hand across the 
threshold which separates the earthly heart 
from God ; but the angel drew with angelic 
power, and the mother passed the threshold 
and walked with God ; that is, she purified 
herself to a holy temple, and fulfilled every 
duty in his name, and loved all in his love, 
and judged no one herself, but gave them 
over to the judgment of Him who says, ' I 
will repay.' " 



$gmn0 cm& Jpoema. 



I see that "one is not" in your household, and that you have 
learned what that Scripture meaneth, u and so death came by sin" 
Death is a stern teacher, but I trust that you have found new and 
precious experiences in this new road which you have been called 
to travel. Count it no strange thing, for this is the King's highway, 
over which all the ransomed pass. There is not a house where there 
has not been one dead ; and if your house be desolate, let your heart 
be full of glad thanksgivings that it is " the Lord who gave, and the 
Lord who has taken away." You have now new attractions in the 
eternal world to draw your hearts thither. Every thing is moving on 
to higher conditions, and your own hearts should be constantly going 
upwards. May God give you grace, and fill you with his peace! 



ERRATA. 

The additions to this volume consist of about ten new 
pages of prose matter, and fifteen of poetry : the printer, 
however, neglected to repage the volume beyond the first 
70 pages, and pages 61 to 70 are repeated at the beginning 
of the poetical selections. 



^gtmt0 anh $otms. 



INSCRIBED TO MR. AND MRS. S. I. PRIME, ON THfe 
DEATH OF THEIR YOUNGEST SON. 

How calm, how beautiful he lies ! 
'Neath drooping fringes shine his eyes, 

Like stars in half eclipse ; 
As sunlight falls his wavy hair 
Across that noble brow, so fair, 
That the blue veins seem penciled there, 

And curved by Art those lips. « 

No quivering of the lid or chin 
Betrays the final strife within ; 

So noiseless sinks his breath, 
That if those cheeks did not disclose 
Life's current in the tint of rose 
That, like a bright thought, comes and goes, 

This would seem beauteous death. 



64 

Already is the stain of earth — 
The stamp of his terrestrial birth — 

Changing for heaven's pure seal : 
The angel's beauty now I see 
Pledged in that sweet serenity ; 
And that unearthly smile to me 

God's signet doth reveal. 

But even here his guileless life — - 
His path with only flowerets rife — 

Almost a cherub's seemed : 
He knew no change from light to shade, 
His soul its own glad sunshine made ; 
Where'er he paused, where'er he strayed, 

Light all around him beamed. 

If such hath been his life's first dawn, 
Oh, what will be the glorious morn 

Just opening on his soul ! 
Favored of Heaven ! to wear the crown, 
Life's weary race to thee unknown, 
And sit with laureled conquerors down, 

Who toiled to reach the goal. 

But fading is that roseate hue ; 
And now cold pearly drops bedew 

That brow of heavenly mould ; 
Fainter and fainter grows his breath : 
Ah, now 'tis gone ! Can this be death ? 
Oh, what so fair the heavens beneath, 
So lovely to behold ! 
JVewark, October 29, 1849. & C. K. 



65 



Take them, Death ! and bear away 
Whatever tliou canst call thine own ! 

Thine image, stamped npon this clay, 
Doth give thee that, but that alone ! 

Take them, Grave ! and let them lie 
Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 

As garments by the soul laid by, 
And precious only to ourselves ! 

Take them, O great Eternity ! 

Our little life is but a gust, 
That bends the branches of thy tree, 

And trails its blossoms in the dust ! 

Longfellow. 



66 



33ereabemott- 

Nay, weep not, dearest, though the child he dead ; 

He lives again in heaven's unclouded life, 
With other angels that have early fled 

From the dark scenes cf sorrow, sin, and strife ; 
Nay, weep not, dearest, though thy yearning love 

Would fondly keep for earth its fairest flowevs, 
And e'en deny to brighter realms above 

The few that deck this dreary world of ours. 
Though much it seems a wonder and a woe 

That one so loved should bs so early lost, 
And hallowed tears may unforbidden flow 

To mourn the blossom that we cherished most — 
Yet all is well : God's good design I see, 
That where our treasure is, our hearts may be ! 

John G. Saxe. 



67 



And this is death ! How cold and still, 

And yet how lovely it appears ! 
Too cold to let the gazer smile, 

And yet too beautiful for tears. 
The sparkling eye no more is bright, 

The cheek has lost its rose-like red ; 
And yet it is with strange delight 

I stand and gaze upon the dead. 

But when I see the fair, wide brow, 

Half shaded by the silken hair, 
That never 'looked so fair as now 

"When life and health were laughing there, 
I wonder not that grief should swell 

So wildly upward in the breast. 
And that strong passion once rebel 

That need not, cannot be suppressed. 

I wonder not that parents' eyes, 

In gazing thus, grow cold and dim ; 
That burning tears and aching sighs 

Are blended with the funeral hymn : 
The spirit hath an- earthly part, 

That weeps when earthly pleasure flies ; 
And Heaven would scorn the frozen heart 

That melts not when the infant dies. 



68 



And yet why mourn ? That deep repose 

Shall never more be broke by pain ; 
Those lips no mora in sighs unclose, 

Those eyes shall never weep again. 
For think not that the blushing flower 

Shall wither in the churchyard sod ; 
'Twas made to gild an angel's bower 

Within the Paradise of God. 

Once more I gaze, and swift and far 

The clouds of death in sorrow fly ; 
I see thee, like a new-born star, 

Move up thy pathway in the sky : 
The star hath rays serene and bright, 

But cold and pale compared with thine ; 
For thy orb shines with heavenly light, 

"With beams unfading and divine. 

Then let the burthened heart be free, 

The tears of sorrow all be shed, 
And parents calmly bend to see 

The mournful beauty of the dead : 
Thrice happy, that their infant bears 

To heaven no darkening stains of sin ; 
And only breathed life's morning airs, 

Before its noonday storms begin. 

Farewell ! I shall not soon forget ! 

Although thy heart hath ceased to beat, 
My memory warmly treasures yet , 
, Thy features calm and mildly sweet. 



69 



But no ; that look is not the last : 

We yet may meet where seraphs dwell, 

Where love no more deplores the past, 

Nor breathes that withering word — Farewell. 

W. 0. B. Peabodt. 



70 



"When the soft airs and quickening showers 

Of spring-time make the meadows green, 
And clothe the sunny hills with flowers, 

And the cool hollows scooped between, 
Ye go, and fondly bending where 

The bloom is brighter than the day, 
Ye pluck the loveliest blossom there 

Of all that gem the rich array. 
The stem, thus robbed and rudely pressed, 

Stands desolate in the purple even ; 
The flower has withered on your breast, 

But given its perfume up to heaven. 

When, mid our hopes that waken fears, 

And mid our joys that end in gloom, 
The children of our earthly years 

Around us spring, and bud, and bloom, 
An angel from the blest above 

Comes down among them at their play, 
And takes the one that most we love, 

And bears it silently away : 
Bereft, we feel the spirit's strife ; 

But while the inmost soul is riven, 
Our dear and beauteous bud of life 

Receives immortal bloom in heaven. 

W. D. Gallagher. 

J 



71 



There is a Reaper whose name is Death, 

And with his sickle keen 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that grow between. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair ?" saith he, 
" Have naught but the bearded grain ? 
Thouo*h the breath of these flowers is sweet to ma 



I will give them all back a&'ain." 



He gazed on the flowers with tearful eyes, 

He kissed their drooping leaves : 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

" They all shall bloom in fields of light, 
Transplanted by my care ; 
And saints upon their garments white 
These sacred flowers wear." 

And the mother gave, with tears and pain, 

The flowers she most did love ; 
But she knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 

- J 



72 



Oil ! not in cruelty, not in wrath 

The Reaper came that day ; 
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 

And took the flowers away. 

Longfellow. 



&i)t Statfytttrrtr <&§iVtsxm an €fiacntr*2'* 

Fair images of sleep ! 

Hallowed, and soft, and deep ; 
On whose calm lids the dreamy quiet lies, 

Like moonlight on shut bells 

Of flowers in mossy dells, 
Filled with the hush of night and summer skies. 

How many hearts have felt 

Your silent beauty melt 
Their strength to gushing tenderness away ! 

How many sudden tears, 

From depths of buried years, 
All freshly bursting, have confessed your sway ! 

How many eyes will shed 

Still, o'er your marble bed, 
Such drops, from Memory's troubled fountain 
wrung ! 

"While Hope hath blights to bear, 

While Love breathes mortal air, 
While roses perish ere to glory sprung. 

Yet, from a voiceless home, 
If some sad mother come 
To bend and linger o'er your lonely rest, 



74: 

As o'er the cheek's warm glow, 
And the soft breathing low 
Of babes, that grew and faded on her breast ; 

If then the dove-like tone 

Of those faint murmurs gone, 
O'er her sick sense too piercing to return ; 

If for the soft bright hair, 

And brow and bosom fair, 
And life, now dust, her soul too deeply yearn ; 

gentle forms, entwined 

Like tendrils, which the wind 
May wave, so clasped, but never can unlink, 

Send from your calm profound 

A still, small voice, a sound 
Of hope, forbidding that lone heart to sink. 

By all the pure, meek mind 

Of your pale beauty shrined, 
By childhood's love — too bright a bloom to die — 

O'er her worn spirit shed, 

O fairest, holiest dead ! 
The Faith, Trust, Light o* Immortality ! 

Mrs. Hemaks, 



75 



As the sweet flower that scents the morn, 

But withers in the rising day, 
Thus lovely seemed the infant's dawn, 

Thus swiftly fled his life away. 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 
Death timely came with friendly care, 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
And bade it bloom for ever there. 

Yet the sad hour that took the boy 
Perhaps has spared a heavier doom, 

Snatched him from scenes of guilty joy, 
Or from the pangs of ills to come. 

He died before his infant soul 

Had ever burned with wrong desire, 

Had ever spurned at Heaven's control, 
Or madly quenched its sacred fire. 

He died to sin, he died to care, 

But for a moment felt the rod ; 
Then, springing on the noiseless air, 

Spread his light wings, and soared to God. 

Belfast Selection of Hymns. 



76 



#n tyz ©tatf) of un Infant* 

Why dost thou weep ? Say, can it be 
Because, for ever blest, and free 
From sin, from sorrow, and from pain, 
Thy babe shall never weep again ; 
Shall never feel, shall never know 
Even half thy little load of wo ? 

"What was thy prayer, when his first smile 
Did thy young mother-heart beguile ; 
When his first cry was in thine ear, 
And on thy cheek his first warm tear, 
And to thy heart at first were pressed 
The throbbiugs of his little breast ? 

What was thy prayer ? Canst thou not now 

See in his bright cherubic brow, 

Hear in his soft seraphic strain, 

So full of joy, so free from pain, 

An answer, (as if God did speak,) 

To all thy love had dared to seek ? . 

Why, wherefore weep, when all the cares, 
The doubts, the troubles, and the snares, 
The threatening clouds, the faffing tears, 
Childhood's wild hopes, and manhood's fears, 
That might have been for him, for thee, 
Have passed away, and ne'er shall be ? 



77 



He scarcely suffered, then was crowned ; 
Was scarcely lost till he was found ; 
And scarcely heaved one mortal sigh, 
Then entered immortality : 
A child of thine, a child of bliss ! 
Why, wherefore weep for joy like this ? 

Nay, rather strive to praise the love 
That could so tenderly reprove ; 
That, when it wounded, left no sting 
Of self-consuming suffering ; 
But with thy profit linked the joy 
Of thy beloved and sainted boy. 

J. S. MONFELL. 



L 



78 



J$ut£ HartSlt) €:Stitrrett &<ntntr Pte 3Sloora* 

Mine earthly children round me bloom, 
Lovely alike in smiles and tears ; 

My fairest sleeps within the tomb, 
Through long and silent years. 

And earthly ties are round me wound, 
And earthly feelings fondly nursed ; 

And yet the spell is not unbound 

That linked me to my first — my first! 

A fairy thing with flaxen hair, 

And eyes of blue, and downy cheek, 

And frolic limbs, and lips that were 
Striving for evermore to speak ; 

A thing as lovely as the day ; 

Fair as the shapes that span the beams ; 
As innocent as flowers of May; 

As frail, as fading as our dreams. 

I see the seals of childhood fade 

Slowly from each young living brow ; 

Yet still, in sunshine and in shade, 
That infant is an infant now. 

Seasons may roll, and manhood's pride 
Each youthful breast with care may fill ; 






• 



79 



And one by one they '11 leave my side, 
But she will be my baby still. 

And every where, by thee unseen, 
That vision followeth every where : 

When three are gathered on the green, 
I always see another there. 

When three around the board are set, 
And call on father and on mother, 

To mortal eyes but three are met ; 
But I — but I can see another. 

A cherub child, with angel wings, 

Is floating o'er me fond and free ; 
And still that gladsome infant sings, 
" Grieve not, dear mother, not for me." 

Eleanor Lee, 



80 



" Dear mother," said a little child, 
" I should not like to die, 
And lie within the grave, nor see 
The sun shine in the sky. 

" Oh ! is it not a dreadful thought, 
When all the earth is bright, •♦ 
To know that we must go to sleep, 
And never see the light ?" 

" It would be so," the mother said, 
"Were not God's promise given, 
That from the dreamless sleep of death 
We shall awake in heaven, 

•' Where shines a brighter sun than this, 
Our opening eyes to bless, 
That never sets, nor veils His face, 
The Sun of Righteousness." 

" But does it not seem very sad 

To leave the glad young flowers, 
That we have loved to look upon 
Through all the summer hours ? 

" When winter comes with threatening clouds, 
They droop their heads and die : 
Dear mother, do they live again, 
And blossom in the sky ?" 



81 



" Not so, my child. Like us, the flowers 
Of earthly dust are made ; 
But heaven has skies without a cloud, 
And flowers that never fade. 

"And happy spirits wander there 

Through long, unnumbered days, 
And join the angels round the throne 
In songs of endless praise." 

" Dear mother," said the little child, 
With earnest, thoughtful eye, 
And drawing closer to her side, 
" How I should like to die /" 



Susan Pindar. 



82 



" Mother, Phi tired, and I would fain be sleeping ; 

Let me repose upon thy bosom seek ; 
But promise me that thou wilt leave off weeping, 

Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. 
Here it is cold ; the tempest raveth madly : 

But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright ; 
I see the angel children smiling gladly, 

"When from my weary eyes I shut the light. 

" Mother, one steals beside me now ! And listen : 

Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord ? 
See how his white wings beautifully glisten ! 

Surely those wings were given him by our Lord ! 
Green, gold, and red are floating all around me ; 

They are the flowers the angel scattereth : 
Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me ? 

Or, mother, are they given alone in death ? 

" Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going ? 

Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine ? 
Thy cheek is hot, and still thy tears are flowing : 

I will, dear mother, will be always thine ! 
Do not sigh thus ; it marreth my reposing ; 

And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee. 
Oh, I am tired ; my weary eyes are closing : 

Look, mother, look ! the angel Msseth me ! " 

From the Danish of Anderson. 



83 



Quiet slumberer ! No gleam 
Of fretful fancy, thought, or dream, 
Passes over Death's calm stream 
To thee, Willy. 

Though our tears are flowing free, 
Though we sorrow sore for thee, 
Thou art happier than we 
In heaven, "Willy. 

Stricken from this weary life 
Ere the world began its strife, 
Or its toils and cares were rife 
With thee, Willy ; 

Time has brought no bitter thing, 
Death no terror and no sting ; 
Angel bands are hovering 
O'er thee, Willy. 

From " Caprices." 



84 



" Poor heart 1 what bitter words we speak 
When God speaks of resigning 1" 

Children, that lay their pretty garlands by- 
Most lingeringly, yet with a patient will ; - 
Sailors, that, when the o'erladen ship lies still, 
Cast out her precious freight with veiled eye, 
Eiches for Kfe exchanging solemnly, 
Lest they should never reach the wished-for shore : 
Thus we, Infinite ! stand thee before, 
And lay down at Thy feet, without one sigh, 
Each after each, our lovely things and rare, 
Our close heart-jewels and our garlands fair. 
Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die, 
And the long- voyaged hoards be found all dust ; 
So take them while unchanged. To Thee we trust 
For incorruptible treasure — Thou art just. 



85 



& ^unbtuwc amftr x .Sfjartroto* 



I hear a sliout of merriment, 

A laughing boy I see ; 
Two little feet the carpet press, 

And bring the child to me. 

Two little arms are round my neck, 
Two feet upon my knee : 

How fall the kisses on my cheek ; 
How sweet they are to me ! 



ii. 



That merry shout no more I hear, 

No laughing child I see ; 
No little arms are round my neck, 

Nor feet upon my knee ! 

No kisses drop upon my cheek ; 

Those lips are sealed to me. 
Dear Lord, how could I give him up 

To any but to Thee ! 



86 



It must be sweet in childhood to give back 

The spirit to its Maker, ere the heart 

Has grown familiar with the paths of sin, 

And sown — to garner up its bitter fruits ! 

I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod 

Upon the blossoms of some seven springs ; 

And when the eighth came round, and called him 

out 
To revel in its light, he turned away, 
And sought his chamber, to lie down and die. 
'Twas night : he summoned his accustomed friends, 
And on this wise bestowed his last bequest : 

Mother, I'm dying now ! 
There's a deep suffocation in my breast, 
As if some heavy hand my bosom pressed ; 

And on my brow 

I feel the cold sweat* stand ; 
My lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath 
Comes feebly up. Oh, tell me, is this death ? 

Mother, your hand ! 

Here ! lay it on my wrist, 
And place the other thus beneath my head : 
And say, sweet mother, say, when I am dead 

Shall I be missed ? 



87 



Never beside your knee 
Shall I kneel down again at night to pray ; 
Nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay 

You taught to rne. 

Oh, at the time of prayer, 
When you look round and see a vacant seat, 
You will not wait then for my coming feet ! 

You'll miss me there. 

Father, I'm going home, 
To the good home you spoke of; that blest land 
Where it is one bright summer always, and 

Storms never come. 

I must be happy then : 
From pain and death you say I shall be free ; 
That sickness never enters there ; and we 

Shall meet again. 

Brother, the little spot 
I used to call my garden, where long hours 
We've staid to watch the budding things and flowers, 

Forget it not ! 



Plant there some box or pine ; 
Something that lives in winter, and will be 
A verdant offering to my memory ; 

And call it mine. 



88 



Sister, my young rose tree, 
That all the spring has been ray pleasant care, 
Just putting forth its leaves, so green and fair, 

I give to thee. 

And when its roses bloom, 
I shall be gone away, my short life done. 
But will you not bestow a single one 

Upon my tomb ? 

ISTow, mother, sing the tune 
You sung last night ; I'm weary, and must sleep. 
Who was it called my name ? Nay, do net weep ; 

You '11 all come soon ! 

Morning spread o'er the earth her rosy wings, 
And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, 
Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air 
Came through the open window, freighted with 
The savory odors of the early spring : 
He breathed it not. The laugh of passers-by 
Jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, 
But wakened not his slumbers. He was dead ! 

J. H. Bright. 



89 



Settle 3&zs&iz t 



AND THE WAT IN WHICH SHE FELL ASLEEP. 

Hug- me closer, closer, mother, 

Put your arms around me tight ; 
I am cold and tired, mother*, 

And I feel so strange to-night ! 
Something hurts me here, dear mother, 

Like a stone upon my breast ; 
Oh, I wonder, wonder, mother, 

Why it is I cannot rest ! 

All the day, while you were working, 

As I lay upon my bed, 
I was trying to be patient, 

And to think of what you said ; 
How the kind and blessed Jesus 

Loves his lambs to watch and keep ; 
And I wished he 'd come and take me 

In his arms, that I might sleep. 

Just before the lamp was lighted, 

Just before the children came, 
While the room was very quiet, 

I heard some one call my name. 
All at once the window opened ; 

In a field were lambs and sheep ; 
Some from out a brook were drinking, 

Some were lying fast asleep. 



90 



But I could not see the Saviour, 

Though I strained my eyes to see ; 
And I wondered, if he saw rne, 

Would he speak to such as me. 
In a moment I was looking 

On a world so bright and fair, 
Which was full of little children, 

And they seemed so happy there ! 

They were singing, oh, how sweetly ! 

Sweeter songs I never heard ; 
They were singing sweeter, mother, « 

Than our little yellow-bird. 
And while I my breath was holding, 

One, so bright, upon me smiled ; 
And I knew it must be Jesus, 

When he said, " Come here, my child. 

" Come up here, my little Bessie, 

Come up here and live with me, 
Where the children never sutler, 

But are happier than you see !" 
Then I thought of all you 'd told me 

Of that bright and happy land : 
I was going when you called me, 

When you came and kissed my hand. 

And at first I felt so sorry 

You had called me : I would go. 



91 



Oh, to sleep and never suffer ! 

Mother, don't be crying so ! 
Hug me closer, closer, mother, 

Put your arms around me tight ; 
Oh, how much I love you, mother, 

But I feel so strange to-night ! 



And the mother pressed her closer 

To her overburdened breast ; 
On the heart so near to breaking 

Lay the heart so near its rest. 
At the solemn hour of midnight, 

In the darkness calm and deep, 
Lying on her mother's bosom, 

Little Bessie fell asleep. « 



R. 



92 



If you're waking, call rne early, call me,. early, 
mother dear, 

For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New- 
Year: 

It is the last New- Year that I shall ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think 
no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set ; he set and left behind 
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 

peace of mind ; 
Now the New-Year's coming up, mother, but I shall 

never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the 

tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a 

merry day ; 
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 

Queen of May ; 



*The second and concluding part of that exquisite 
poem of Tennyson's, The May Queen, is here inserted 
entire, with the exception of one verse. Although not 
referring to the death of a young child, it possesses a, ten- 
der interest to every bereaved parent. 



93 



And* we danced about the May-pole, and in the hazel 

copse, 
Till Charles's Wain* came out above the tall white 

chimney-tops. 

There's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on 

the pane : 
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out 

on high : 
I long to see a flower so, before the day I die. 

The building rook '11 caw in the windy tall elm tree, 
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
And the swallow '11 come back again, with summer, 

o'er the wave, 
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 

grave ! 

Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of 

mine, 
In the early, early morning, the summer sun '11 

shine, 
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 

hill, 
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the 

world is still. 



* A Constellation. 



94 



When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
waning light, 

You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at 
night, 

When, from the dry, dark wold, the summer airs 
blow cool 

On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bul- 
rush in the pool. 

You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the haw- 
thorn shade, 

And you'll come sometimes and see me, where I am 
lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when 
you p£ss 

With your feet above my head, in the long and 
pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive 

me now ; 
You '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and 

brow ; 
Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 

wild; 
You should not fret for me, mother : you have another 

child. 

If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my rest- 
ing-place ; 



95 



Though, you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon 

your face ; 
Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what 

you say, 
And be often, often with you, when you think I 'm 

far away. 

Good-night, good-night. When I have said good- 
night for evermore, 

And you see me carried out from the threshold of the 
door, 

Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow- 
ing green : 

She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 

She '11 find my garden tools upon the granary floor : 

Let her take 'em ; they are hers : I shall never gar- 
den more. 

But tell her, when I 'm gone, to train the rose-bush 
that I set 

About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother : Call me before the day 

is born. 
All night I he awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-Year, 
So, if you're waking, call rae, call me early, mother 

dear ! 

Tennyson. 



96 

BEING A CONCLUSION TO THE FOREGOING PIECE. 

I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am, 
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the 

lamb. 
How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the 

year ! 
To die before the snowdrop came — and now the 

violet 's here ! 

Oh, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 

skies, 
And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me who 

cannot rise ; 
And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 

that blow, 
And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long 

to go. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed 

sun, 
And now it seems as hard to stay — and yet His will 

be done ! 
But still I think it can't be long before I find release, 
And that good man, the clergyman, has told me 

words of peace. 



97 



Oli, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver 

hair! 
And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 

me there ; 
Oh, blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver 

head ! 
A thousand times I blessed him, as he knelt beside 

my bed. 

He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all 

the sin : 
Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One 

will let me in ; 
Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that 

could be, 
For my desire is but to pass to Him who died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
watch beat ; 

There came a sweeter token, when the night and 
morning meet : 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in 
mine, 

And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 



All in the wild March morning, I heard the angels 

call ; 
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was 

over all ; 



I 



98 



The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 

roll, 
And in the wild March morning I heard them call 

my soul. 

For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie 

dear ; 
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here. 
With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt 

resigned, 
And up the valley came a swell of music on the 

wind. 

I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, 
And then did something speak to me. I know not 

what was said, 
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my 

mind, 
And up the valley came again the music on the 

wind. 



But you were sleeping, and I said, It 's not for them : 
it's mine — 

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a 
sign ; 

And once again it came, and close beside the win- 
dow-bars, 

Then seemed to go right up to heaven, and die among 
the stars. 



99 



So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I know 

The blessed music went that way my soul will have 

to go : 

But for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day — 

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past 

away. 

% % % * % 

Oh, look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in 

a glow ; 
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 

know. 
And there I move no longer now, and there his light 

may shine — 
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 

Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that, ere this 

day is done, 
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the 

sun, 
For ever and for ever, with those just souls and true — 
And what is life, that we should moan — why make 

we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home, 

And there to wait a little while, till you and Effie 



To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 

breast — 

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 

are at rest. m 

Tennyson. 



100 

moto $£3C£fuite! 

How peacefully they rest, 

Cross-folded there 
Upon his little breast, 
Those tiny hands that ne'er were still before, 

But ever sported with its mother's hair, 
Or the bright gem that on her breast she wore ! 

Her heart no more will beat 
To feel the touch of that soft palm, 
That ever seemed a new surprise, 
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes, 
To bless him with their holy calm ; 
Sweet thoughts, that left her eyes as sweet ! 

How quiet are the hands 

That wore those pleasant bands ! 
But that they do not rise and sink 
"With his calm breathing, I should think 

That he were dropped asleep. 

Alas ! too deep — too deep 

Is this his slumber ! 

Time scarce can number 
The years ere he will wake again — 
Oh ! may we see his eyelids open then ! 

He did but float a little way 
Adown the stream of time, 
With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, 
And listening to their fairy chime. 



101 

His slender sail 
Ne'er felt the gale ; 
He did but float a little way, 

And putting to the shore, 
While yet 'twas early day, 
Went calmly on his way, 

To dwell with us no more. 
No jarring did he feel, 
No grating on his vessel's keel. 
A strip of silver sand 
Mingled the waters with the land, 
Where he was seen no more ! 
Oh ! stern word — nevermore ! 



_j 



102 



bonnet 

ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CHILD. 

"It is not the will of my Father which is in heaven that 
one of these little ones should perish." 

The day is beautiful, and nature springs 
To life and light again. "Where art thou gone 
In thy young bloom, my own, my lovely one ? 
Nor sun, nor balmy air, thy image brings 
To bless my longing eyes. The violet flings 
Its rath perfume around ; sweet warblers own 
Their joy in varied song ; yet, sad alone, 
Can I rejoice, when all surrounding things 
Tell of thy opening beauty, shrouded now 
In the cold precincts of the silent tomb ? 
I did not think to weep thy early doom, 
My best beloved ! Yet would I meekly bow 
To His decree, who, in the words of love — 
" She will not perish !" — whispers from above. 



103 



STJje €Stitr of James J&elbtile, 

Born, July 9, 1586. Died about January, 1588. 

This page, if thou be a pater [parent, father] that reads 
it, thou wilt apardone me ; if nocht, suspend thy censure 
till thou be a father, as said the graye Lacedaemonian, 
Agesilaus. — Autobiography of James Melville. 

One time rny soul was pierced as with a sword, 
Contending still with men untaught and wild, 

When He who to the prophet lent his gourd, 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift my precious flower was given ; 

A very summer fragrance was its life ; 
Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven 

When home I turned, a weary man of strife. 

With unformed laughter, musically sweet, 

How soon the wakening babe would meet my Mss ; 

With outstretched arms its care-wrought father greet : 
Oh ! in the desejt what a spring was this ! 

A few short months it blossomed near my heart ; 

A few short months — else toilsome all and sad ; 
But that home solace nerved me for my part, 

And of the babe I was exceeding glad ! 



104 

Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying — 
(The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night !) 

And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying, 
Took gently home the child of my delight. 

Not rudely culled — not suddenly it perished, 
But gradual faded from our love away ! 

As if still, secret dews, its life that cherished, 
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day ! 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 
So tenderly He sued me for His own ; 

So beautiful He made my babe's declining, 
Its dying blessed me as its birth had done ! 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in heaven, 
Gazing the while on death without its stinof. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid, 

So very sweet at times our converse seemed, 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made — 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed ! 

There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour- 
ished ; 

And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand, 
Marking how each the other fondly cherished, 

And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand ! 



105 

So tame they grew, that, to his cradle flying, 
Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest ; 

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 

'Twas a fair sight — the snow-pale infant sleeping, 
So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild ; 

Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping 
Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! 

Still, as he sickened, seemed the doves too dwining, 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play 

And on the day he died, with sad note pining, 
One gentle bird would not be frayed away. 

His mother found it, when she rose sad-hearted, 
At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; 

And when, at last, the little spirit parted, 
The dove died too, as if of its heart's chill ! 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 
As with a human sorrow in its coo — 

To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, 
Most pitifully plained, and parted too ! 

'Twas my first " hansel" * and " propine" f to Heaven 
And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod — 



* Present. 



f Earnest, pledge. 



L 



106 

Precious His comforts — once an infant given, 
And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! 



Mrs. A. Stuart Menteath, 



107 



(turn's Wxx%t. 

Vainly for us the sunbeams shine ; 

Dimmed is our joyous hearth ; 
O Casa ! dearer dust than thine 

Ne'er mixed with mother earth ! 
Thou wert the corner-stone of love, 

The key-stone of our fate ! 
Thou art not ! Heaven scowls dark above, 

And earth is desolate ! 

Ocean may move with billows curled, 

And moons may wax and wane, 
And fresh flowers blossom ; but this world 

Shall claim not thee again. 
Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice 

Our hearts, till love ran o'er ; 
Thy smile is vanished, and thy voice 

Silent for evermore ! 



Yes, thou art gone, our heart's delighf, 

Our boy so fond and dear ! 
No more thy smiles to glad our sight, 

No more thy songs to cheer ; 
No more thy presence, like the sun, 

To fill our home with joy ! 
Like lightning hath thy race been run, 

As swift, as bright, fair boy ! 



108 

Now winter with its snow departs, 

The green leaves clothe the tree ; 
But summer smiles not on the hearts 

That bleed and break for thee ; 
The young May weaves her flowery crown, 

Her boughs in beauty wave ; 
They only shake their blossoms down 

Upon thy silent grave. 

Dear to our souls is every spot 

Where thy small feet have trod ; 
There, odors breathed from Eden float, 

And sainted is the sod ; 
The wild bee with its buglet fine, 

The blackbird singing free, 
Melt both thy mother's heart and mine — 

They speak to us of thee ! • 

Only in dreams thou comest now 

From Heaven's immortal shore, 
A glory round that infant brow 

Which Death's pale signet bore. 
'Twas thy fond looks, 'twas thy fond lips, 

That lent our joys their tone ; 
And life is shadowed in eclipse 

Since thou from earth art gone. 



Were thine the fond, endearing ways 
That tenderest feeling prove ; 



109 

A thousand wiles to win our praise, 
To claim and keep our love. 

Fondness for us thrilled all thy veins ; 
And, Casa, can it be 

That naught of all the past remains 
Except vain tears for thee ? 

Idly we watch, thy form to trace 

In children on the street ; 
Vainly in each familiar place 

"We list thy pattering feet. 
Then sudden o'er these fancies crushed 

Despair's black pinions wave ; 
We know that sound for ever hushed — 

We look upon thy grave ! 

O heavenly child of mortal birth ! 

Our thoughts of thee arise, 
Not as a denizen of earth, r 

But inmate of the skies. 
To feel that life renewed is thine, 

A soothing balm imparts ; 
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine, 

And Sabbath fills our hearts. 



Thou leanest where the fadeless wands 

Of amaranth bend o'er ; 
Thy white wings brush the golden sands 

Of Heaven's refulgent shore. 



110 

Thy home is where the psalm and song 

Of angels choir abroad, 
And blessed spirits all day long 

Bask round the throne of God. 

There chance and change are not ; the soul 

Quaffs bliss as from a sea, 
And years through endless ages roll, 

From sin and sorrow free. 
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy, 

New raptures to impart ; 
Oh ! dare we call thee still our boy, 

Who now a seraph art i 

A little while, a little while — 

Ah ! long it cannot be — 
And thou again on us wilt smile 

Where angels smile on thee. 
How selfish is the worldly heart, 

How sinful to deplore ! 
Oh that we were where now thou art, 

Not lost, but gone before ! 

W. D. Mom. 



Ill 



She lies in her coffin, 

Her little sand run ! 
The golden bowl broken, 

Her happy life done ! 

No more her sweet prattle 
Will wake us at light ; 

No more to each dear one 
She'll lisp her " Good-night." 

How clear used to warble 
.Her voice in the song ! 

What ripe words, yet childish, 
Oft fell from her tongue ! 

That voice now is silent ; 

We '11 listen in vain, 
Amid our sad circle, 

To hear it again ! 

Oft came a light tapping, 
Scarce touching the floor ; 

We knew 't was her footstep — 
We '11 know it no more ! 

We glance at her playthings, 
Her books and her cot, 

And tears wet our eyelids, 
For Menie is not ! 



112 

Hush ! Menie still liveth, 
Though, not to our sight ; 

Her happy soul basking 
In Heaven's own light. 

Her voice still is singing, 
Though not for our ear ; 

She swelleth the chorus 
ISTo mortal may hear. 

We ne'er to our bosoms 
Our darling may press, 

Yet needs she no token 
Of love's tenderness : 

For Jesus hath called her ; 

She rests in his arms, 
Free now from all sickness, 

Free now from all harms. 

She lies in her coffin, 
Life's little sand run ; 

But, being far nobler, 
She just hath begun ! 

Oh, would we recall her 
To sin and to pain ? 

We '11 come to thee, Menie, 
We '11 see thee again ! 



113 



When tlie morning, half in shadow, 
Ean along the hill and meadow, 
And with milk-white fingers parted 
Crimson roses, golden-hearted ; 
Opening over ruins hoary 
Every purple morning-glory, 
And out-shaking from the bushes 
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes ; 
That 's the time our little baby — 
Strayed from Paradise, it may be — 
Came, with eyes like heaven above her 
Oh, we could not choose but love her ! 

Not enough of earth for sinning, 
Always gentle, always winning, 
Never needing our reproving, 
Ever lively, ever loving ; 
Starry eyes and sunset tresses, 
"White arms, made for light caresses, 
Lips that knew no word of doubting, 
Often kissing, never pouting ; 
Beauty even in completeness, 
Over-full of childish sweetness ; 
That 's the way our little baby, 
Far too pure for earth, it may be, 
Seemed to us, who, while about her, 
Deemed we could not do without her. 



114 

When the morning, half in shadow, 
Ban along the hill and meadow, 
AiLd with milk-white fingers parted 
Crimson roses, golden-hearted ; 
Opening over ruins hoary 
Every purple morning-glory, 
And out-shaking from the bushes 
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes ; 
That 's the time our little baby, 
Pining here for heaven, it may be, 
Turning from our bitter weeping, 
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping, 
And her white hands on her bosom 
Folded like a summer blossom. 

Now, the litter she doth lie on, 
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion ; 
Go, as past a pleasant meadow, 
Through the valley of the shadow. 
Take her softly, holy angels, 
Past the ranks of God's evangels ; 
Past the saints and martyrs holy, 
To the Earth-Born, meek and lowly : 
"We would have our precious blossom 
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom. 



115 



& J^oustfjjoltr SLamentattotr* 

Room, Mother Earth, upon thy breast for this young 
child of ours ; 

Give her a quiet resting-place among thy buds and 
flowers ; 

Oh ! take her gently from our arms unto thy silent 
fold, 

For she is calmly beautiful, and- scarcely two years 
old, 

And ever since she breathed on us hath tender nurs- 
ing known : 

No wonder that with aching hearts we leave her 
here alone. 



How we shall miss the roguish glee, the merry, 

merry voice, 
That in the darkest, dreariest day would make us to 



rejoice 



How sweet was every morning kiss, each parting for 

the night, 
Her lisping words, that on us fell as gently as the 

light ! 
But death came softly to the spot where she was wont 

to rest, 
And bade us take her from our home and lay her on 

thy breast. 



116 



So, mother, thou hast one child more, and we have 

one child less ; 
The sweetest spot in all our hearts seems now a 

wilderness, 
From which the warm light of the sun has wandered 

swift and far, 
And nothing there of radiance left but Memory's 

solemn star : 
We gaze a moment on its light, then sadly turn aside, 
As though we now had none to love, and all with her 

had died. 

Mother, we know we should rejoice that she has gone 

before — 
Gone where the withering hand of death shall never 

touch her more, 
Up to the clime of sinless souls, a golden harp to bear, 
And join the everlasting song of singing children 

there : 
Yet, when we think how dear she was to us in her 

brief stay, 
We can but weep that one so sweet so early passed 

away. 

R. 



117 



gftttr ©ite 10 "Not* 



When at eve my children gather 

Bound the lowly ingle-side, 
"Whispering to my spirit, " Father, 

In thy love we each confide ;" 
While I press them to my bosom, 

In an overflow of joy, 
How I miss that stricken blossom, 

Him who was the only boy ! 

Often will they talk of brother, 

Even she who knew him not ; 
For I think that for another 

He should never be forgot ; 
And I love to link their feelings 

With the kindred one away, 
Though the thought wall oft be stealing, 

That dear form is naught but clay. 

Still I bow in bland submission ; 

Even grateful try to be : 
One is not ; but, blest condition ! 

Providence has left me three. 
So I '11 press them to my bosom, 

In an overflow of joy ; 
Heaven has gained my cherished blossom, 

God's is now my only boy ! 

Rev. E. C. Jones. 



118 



Bonnet* 

Oft have I thought they err, who, having lost 
That love-gift of our youth, an infant child, 
Yield the faint heart to those emotions wild 
With which, too oft, strong Memory is crost, 
Shrinking with sudden gasp, as if a ghost 
Frowned in their path. Not thus the precepts mild 
Of Jesus teach ; which never yet beguiled 
Man with vain promises. God loves us most 
When chastening us ; and He who conquered 

death 
Permits not that we still deem death a curse. 
The font is man's true tomb ; the grave his nurse 
For heaven, and feeder with immortal breath. 
Oh, grieve not for the dead ! None pass from earth 
Too soon : God then fulfils his purpose in our birth ! 

Sir Aubrey De Vere. 



119 



2T|)e <£j)tarrett at tjje €a>Iiietf 6fatts» 

Little travellers Zionward 

Each one entering into rest 
' In the kingdom of your Lord, 

In the mansions of the blest ; 
There, to welcome, Jesus waits, 

Gives the crowns his followers win. 
Lift your heads, ye golden gates, 

Let the little travellers in ! 

Who are they whose little feet, 

Pacing life's dark journey through, 
Now have reached that heavenly seat 
They had ever^kept in view ? 
"I from Greenland's frozen land ;" 

" I from India's sultry plain ;" 
" I from Afric's barren sand ;" 

" I from islands of the main." * 

"All our earthly journey past, 

Every tear and pain gone by, 
Here together met at last 

At the portals of the sky : 
Each the welcome 'Come' awaits, 

Conquerors over death and sin !" 
Lift your heads, ye golden gates, 

Let the little travellers in ! 



Jas. Edmenstox 



120 



When on my ear your loss was knelled, 

And tender sympathy upburst, 
A little rill from memory swelled, 

Which once had soothed my bitter thirst 

And I was fain to bear to you 

Some portion of its mild relief, 
That it might be as healing dew, 

To steal some fever from your grief. 

After our child's untroubled breath 

Up to the Father took its way, 
And on our home the shade of death, 

Like a long twilight, haunting lay, 

And friends came round with us to weep 

Her little spirit's swift remove, 
This 'story of the Alpine sheep 

Was told to us by one we love : 

" They in the valley's sheltering care 

Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, 
And when the sod grows brown and bare, 
The Shepherd strives to make them climb 

"To airy shelves of pasture green, 

That hang along the mountain's side, 
Where grass and flowers together lean, 

And down through mists the sunbeams slide ; 



121 



1 



" But naught can tempt the timid things 
The steep and rugged path to try, 
Though sweet the Shepherd calls and sings, 
And seared below the pastures lie, 

" Till in his arms the lambs he takes, 
Along the dizzy verge to go ; 
Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, 
They follow on o'er rock and snow. 

"And in those pastures lifted fair, 

More dewy soft than lowland mead, 
The Shepherd drops his tender care, 
• And sheep and lambs together feed." 

This parable, by Nature breathed, 
Blew on me as the south wind free 

O'er frozen brooks, that float, unsheathed 
From icy thraldom, to the sea. 

A blissful vision through the night 
Would all my happy senses sway, 

Of the Good Shepherd on the height, 
Or climbing up the stony way, 

Holding our little lamb asleep ; 

And like the burden of the sea 
Sounded that voice along the deep, 

Saying, "Arise and follow me.'* 

Maria Lowell. 



6 



122 



There is no flock, however watched and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair ! 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Eachel, for her children crying, 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portal we call Death. 

She is not dead — the child of our affection — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 

And Christ himself doth rule. 



123 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when, with raptures wild, 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 



And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 



124 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 

Longfellow. 



j 



125 



33ereabemettt* 

" The Lord gave Job twice as rauch as lie had before. 1 

I marked when vernal meads were bright, 
And many a primrose smiled ; 

I marked her, blithe as morning light, 
A dimpled three years' child. 

A basket on one tender arm 

Contained her precious store 
Of spring flowers, in their freshest charm, 
* Told proudly o'er and o'er. 

The other wound w T ith earnest hold 

About her blooming guide, 
A maid, who scarce twelve years had told : 

So walked they side by side — 

One a bright bud, and one may seem 

A sister-flower half blown : 
Full joyous on their loving dream 

The sky of April shone. 

The summer months swept by : again 

That loving pair I met ; 
On russet heath and bowery lane 

Th' autumnal sun had set : 

And chill and damp that Sunday eve 
Breathed on the mourner's road. 



126 

That bright-eyed little one to leave 
Safe in the saints' abode. 

Behind, the guardian sister came, 
Her bright brow dim and pale — 

Oh, cheer the maiden ! — in His name, 
Who stilled Jairus' wail ! 

Thou mourn'st to miss the fingers soft 

That held by thine so fast, 
The fond-appealing eye, full oft 

Toward thee for refuge cast. 

Sweet toils ! sweet cares, for ever gone ! 

ISTo more from stranger's face 
Or startling sound, the timid one 

Shall hide in thy embrace. 

Thy first glad earthly task is o'er, 
And dreary seems thy way ; 

And what if, nearer than before, 
She watch thee even to-day ? 

What if henceforth by Heaven's decree 

She leave thee not alone, 
But in her turn prove guide to thee 

In ways to angels known ? 

Oh ! yield thee to her whisperings sweet 
Away with thoughts of gloom ! 



127 

In love the loving spirits greet, 
"Who wait to bless her tomb. 

In loving hope, with her unseen, 

Walk as in hallowed air ; 
WTien foes are strong, and trials keen, 

Think, " What if she be there ?" 



Keble. 



L, 



123 



®Se Star autr tge (EfjClfcr, 

A maiden walked at eventide 
Beside a clear and placid stream, 

And smiled, as in its depths she saw 
A trembling star's reflected beam. 

She smiled until the beam was lost, 
As 'cross the sky a cloud was driven ; 

And then she sighed, and then forgot 
The star was shining still in heaven. 

A mother sat beside life's stream, 
Watching a dying child at dawn, 

And smiled, as from its eye she caught 
A hope that it might still live on. 

She smiled until the eyelids closed, 
But watched for breath until the even ; 

And then she wept, and then forgot 
The child was living still in heaven. 



R. 



129 



He came — a beauteous vision — 

Then vanished from my sight, 
His cherub wing scarce clearing 

The blackness of my night ; 
My glad ear caught its rustle, 

Then, sweeping by, he stole 
The dew-drop that his coming 

Had cherished in my soul. 

Oh ! he had been my solace 

When grief my spirit swayed, 
And on his fragile being 

Had tender hopes been stayed ; 
Where thought, where feeling lingered, 

His form was sure to glide, 
And in the lone night-watches 

'Twas ever by my side. 

He came ; but as the blossom 

Its petals closes up, 
And hides them from the tempest 

Within its sheltering cup ; 
So he his spirit gathered 

Back to its frightened breast, 
And passed from earth's grim thiwt <*d 
. To be the Saviour's guest. 



130 



My boy — ah me ! the sweetness, 

The anguish of that word ! — 
My boy, when in strange night-dreams 

My slumbering soul is stirred ; 
When music floats around me, 

When soft lips touch my brow, 
And whisper gentle greetings, 

Oh tell me, is it thou ? 

I know by one sweet token 

My Charley is not dead ; 
One golden clue he left me, 

As on his track he sped : 
Were he some gem or blossom, 

But fashioned for to-day, 
My love would slowly perish 

With his dissolving clay. 

Oh, by this deathless yearning, 

Which is not idly given ; 
By the delicious nearness 

My spirit feels to heaven ; 
By dreams that throng my night-sleep, 

By visions of the day, 
By whispers when I 'm erring, 

By promptings when I pray, 

I know this life so cherished, 

Which sprang beneath my heart, 



131 



Which formed of my own being 

So beautiful a part ; 
This precious, winsome creature, 

My unfledged, voiceless dove, 
Lifts now a seraph's pinion, 

And warbles lays of love. 

Oh, I would not recall thee, 

My glorious angel-boy ! 
Thou needest not my bosom, 

Eare bird of life and joy ! 
Here dash I down the tear-drops 

Still gathering in my eyes ; 
Blest — oh, how blest ! — in adding 

A seraph to the skies. 



Emily C/Judson. 



182 
"jf&otjier, slits S**u»artem*" 

THE LAST WORDS OF A DYING CHILD. 

A child lay in a twilight room, 

With pallid, waxen face ; 
A little child, whose tide of life 

Had nearly run its race. 

Most holy robes the angels brought, 

By holy spirits given, 
Ready to wrap the child in them, 

And carry him to heaven. 

And shining wings, with clasps of light, 

Two shining wings they bore, 
To fasten on the seraph-child, 

Soon as the strife was o'er. 
> 
Perchance their beauty made him think 

Of some harmonious word 
That often from his mother's lips 

The dying one had heard. 

It might be, for he whispered low, 
" Sing, mother, sing," and smiled ; 

The worn one knelt beside the couch : 
" "What shall I sing, my child ?" 



133 



"Jerusalem, my happy home," 

The gasping boy replied ; 
And sadly sweet the clear notes rang 
Upon the eventide. 

u Jerusalem, my happy home, 
Name ever dear to me ! 
When shall my labors have an end 
In joy, and peace, and thee V 9 

And on she sang, while breaking hearts 

Beat slow, unequal time ; 
They felt the passing of the soul 

With that triumphal chime. 

i: Oh, when, thou city of my God, 
Shall I thy courts ascend ?" 
They saw the shadows of the grave 
With his sweet beauty blend. 

" Why should I shrink at pain or woe, 
Or feel at death dismay 2" 
She ceased — the angels bore the child 
To realms of endless day. 



134 



fiari£ 3L$$t f HEarlg .Sabetr. 

Within lier downy cradle there lay a little child, 
And a group of hovering angels unseen upon her 

smiled ; 
A strife arose among them — a loving, holy strife — 
"Which should shed the richest blessing over the new- 
born life. 

One breathed upon her features, and the babe in 

beauty grew, 
With a cheek like morning's blushes, and an eye of 

azure hue ; 
Till every one who saw her, were thankful for the 

sight 
Of a face so sweet and radiant with ever-fresh 

delight. 

Another gave her accents, and a voice as musical 

As a spring-bird's joyous carol, or a rippling stream- 
let's fall ; 

Till all who heard her laughing, or her words of 
childish grace, 

Loved as much to listen to her as to look upon her 
face. 

Another brought from heaven a clear and gentle 

mind, 
And within the lovely casket the precious gem 

enshrined ; 



135 



Till all who knew her wondered that God should be 

so good 
As to bless with such a spirit our desert world and 

rude. 

Thus did she grow in beauty, in melody, and truth, 
The budding of her childhood just opening into 

youth ; 
And to our hearts yet dearer every moment than 

before 
She became, though we thought fondly heart could 

not love her more. 

Then out-spake another angel, nobler, brighter than 
the rest, 

As with strong arm, but tender, he caught her to his 
breast : 

" Ye have made her all too lovely for a child of mor- 
tal race, 

But no shade of human sorrow shall darken o'er her 
face. 



"Ye have tuned to gladness only the accents of her 

tongue, 
And no wail of human anguish shall from her lips 

be wrung ; 
Nor shall the soul that shineth so purely from within 
Her form of earth-born frailty, ever know the taint 

of sin. 



136 



"Lulled in my faithful bosom, I will bear her far 

away, 
Where there is no sin nor anguish, nor sorrow, nor 

decay ; 
And mine a boon more glorious than all your gifts 

shall be — 
Lo ! I crown her happy spirit with immortality ! " 

Then on his heart our darling yielded up her gentle 

breath, 
For the stronger, brighter angel, who loved her best, 

was Death ! 

Bethune. 



139 



Her suffering ended with the day, 

Yet lived she at its close, 
And breathed the long, long night away 

In statue-like repose. 

But when the sun, in all his state, 

Illumed the eastern shies, 
She passed through Glory's Morning-gate, 

And walked in Paradise ! 

James Aldrich. 



We watched her breathing through the night 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her heart the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seemed to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her being out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 
Our fears our hopes belied ; 



140 

"We thought her dying when she slept, 
And sleeping when she died. 

For when the morn came, dim and sad, 
And chill with early showers, 

Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
Another morn than ours. 

Thomas Hood. 



137 



Oh ! think that while you 're weeping here, 

His hand a golden harp is stringing ; 
And, with a voice serene and clear, 
His ransomed soul, without a tear, 
His Saviour's praise is singing. 

And think that all his pains are fled, 
His toils and sorrows closed for ever ; 

While He whose blood for man was shed 

Has placed upon his infant head 
A crown that fadeth never ! 

And think that in that awful day 

When darkness sun and moon is shading 
The form that midst its kindred clav 
Your trembling hands prepared to lay, 
Shall rise to life unfading ! 

Then weep no more for him who 's gone 

Where sin and suffering ne'er shall enter ; 
But on that great High Priest alone, 
Who can for guilt like ours atone, 
Your whole affections centre. 

Dr. Huie. 



138 



Sweet babe, from griefs and dangers 

Rest here for ever free ; 
We leave thy dust with strangers, 

But oh, we leave not thee! 

Thy mortal sweetness, smitten 
To scourge our souls from sin, 

Is on our memory written, 
And treasured deep therein ; 

While that which is immortal 

Fond Hope doth still retain, 
And saith, "At heaven's bright portal 

Ye all shall meet again." 

J. Moultrie. 



141 



& ptfufgtirfng &ngel» 

Mother, has the dove that nestled 

Lovingly upon thy breast 
Folded up his little pinion, 

And in darkness gone to rest ? 

Nay, the grave is dark and dreary, 
But the loved one is not there ; 

Hear'st thou not its gentle whisper 
Floating on the ambient air ? 

It is near thee, gentle mother, 
Near thee at the evening hour ; 

Its soft Mss is in the zephyr, 
It looks up from every flower. 

And when, night's dark shadows fleeing, 
Low thou bendest thee in prayer, 

And thy heart feels nearest heaven, 
Then thy angel babe is there ! 

Emily Judson. 



142 



Mother, o'er thy' daughter bending, 
On her bed of death attending, 
Cease to heave those sighs heart-rending- 
Cease to weep. 

Vain the tears you now are weeping, 
Vain the watch you now are keeping : 
Calmly now in peace she 's sleeping 
Death's long sleep. 

For her now the Son is pleading 
To that Fathei ne'er unheeding ; 
And her spirit, homeward speeding, 

May not stay. 

Mourn not, then, that she is leaving 
Early thus a world deceiving, 
"Where so many oft are grieving 
Death's delay. 

J. H. Granville, 



r" 



143 



Thou bright and star-like spirit, 

That in my visions wild 
I see mid heaven's seraphic host, 

Oh, canst thou be my child ! 

My grief is quenched in wonder, 

And pride arrests my sighs ; 
A branch of this unworthy stock 

Now blossoms in the skies ! 

Our hopes of thee were lofty ; 

But have we caus-e to grieve ? 
Oh, could our proudest, fondest wish 

A nobler fate conceive ? 

The little weeper — tearless ; 

The sinner— snatched from sin ; 
The babe — to more than manhood grown 

Ere childhood did begin. 

And I, thy earthly teacher, 

Would blush thy powers to see : 

Thou art to me a parent now, 
And I a child to thee. 

Thy brain, so uninstructed 

"While in this lowly state, 
Now threads the mazy tracks of spheres, 

Or reads the book of fate. 



144 

Thine eyes, so curbed in vision, 
Now range the realms of space, 

Look down upon the rolling stars, 
Look up — in God's own face. 

Thy little hand so helpless, 

That scarce its toys could hold, 

Now clasps its mate in holy prayer, 
Or strikes a harp of gold. 

Thy feeble feet, unsteady, 

That tottered as they trod, 
With angels walk the heavenly paths, 

Or stand before their God. 

Nor is thy tongue less skilful 

Before the throne divine ; 
'T is pleading for a mother's weal, 

As once she prayed for thine. 

What bliss is born of sorrow ! 

'T is never sent in vain : 
The heavenly Surgeon maims to save ; 

He gives no useless pain. 

Our God, to call us homeward, 

His only Son sent down, 
And now, still more to tempt our hearts, 

Has taken up our own. 

Thomas Ward. 



145 



^ 
i 



@rO& SLoofutr gCtnoiXQ fits <&i}txxib 23cmtr« 

God looked among his cherub band, 
And one was wanting there, 

To swell along the holy land 

The hymns of praise and prayer. 

One little soul which long had been 
Half way 'tween earth and sky, 

Untempted in a world of sin, 
He watched with loving eye. 

It was too promising a flower 

To bloom upon this earth, 
And God did give it angel power, 

And bright celestial birth. 

The world was all too bleak and cold 

To yield it quiet rest ; 
God brought it to his shepherd-fold, 

And laid it on his breast. 

There, mother, in thy Saviour's arms, 

For ever undefiled, 
Amid the little cherub band, 

Is thy beloved child. 



- 



148 



Wt uvz Beben* 



A simple child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl ; 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 

That clustefed round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair : 

Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 

How many may you be ?" 
" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

"And where are they ? I pray you tell." 

She answered, " Seven are we : 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie — 
My sister and my brother ; 
And in the churchyard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 



147 



" You say that two at Conway dwell, 
And two are gone to sea ; 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 
Sweet Maid, how this may be." 

Then did the little Maid reply : 
" Seven boys and girls are we ; 

Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
Beneath the churchyard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 
Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 
Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little Maid replied, 
" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit — 
I sit and sing to them. 

"And often after sunset, sir, 

When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 



148 

" The first that died was little Jane : 
In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain, 
And then she went away. 

" So in the churchyard she was laid ; 
And when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 
My brother John and I. 

"And when the ground was white with snow, 

And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go, 
And he lies by her side." 

u How many are you, then," said I, 
" If they two are in heaven ?" 
The little Maiden did reply, 
" Oh, Master, we are seven !" 

" But they are dead : those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven !" 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little Maid would have her will, 

And said, " Nay, we are seven !" 

"Wordsworth. 



149 



Sj&e Safety of tge Enfant Mtutf* 

They only can be said to possess a child for ever, who 
have lost one in infancy. 

Our beauteous child we laid amidst the silence of 

the dead ; 
We heaped the earth, and spread the turf above the 

cherub-head ; 
We turned again to sunny life, to other ties as dear, 
And the world has thought us comforted, when we 

have dried the tear. 

And time has rolled its onward tide, and in its ample 

range 
Has poured along the happiest paths vicissitude and 

change ; 
The flexile forms of infancy their earliest leaves have 

shed, 
And the tall, stately forest trees are waving in their 

stead. 

We guide not now our children's steps, as we were 

wont before, 
For they have sprung to manhood, they lean on us 

no more ; 
We gaze upon the lofty brow, and time and thought 

have cast 
A shade, through which we seek in vain the memory 

of the past. 



T 



150 



And do we mourn the other change, which mocks 

our memory here ? 
Ah no ! : t is but the answered wish of many a secret 

prayer : 
Centre of all our fondest hopes, we live but in their 

fame, 
But our love, as to a little child, how can it be the 

same? 

We still have one — and only one — secure in sacred 

trust ; 
It is the lone and lovely one that 's sleeping in the 

dust. 
"We fold it in our arms again, we see it by our side 
In the helplessness of innocence, which sin has never 

tried. 

All earthly trust, all mortal years, however light 

they fly, 
But darken on the glowing cheek, and dim the 

eagle eye ; 
But there, our bright, unwithering flower — our spirit's 

hoarded store — 
We keep through every chance and change, the same 

for evermore. 



151 



W&z Sjurtt'* <Sotr^ of (ftottsotetlotr** 

Dear parents, grieve no more for me ; 

My parents, grieve no more ; 
Believe that I am happier far 

Than even with you before. 
I 've left a world where woe and sin 

Swell onwards as a river, 
And gained a world where I shall rest 

In peace and joy for ever. 

Our Father bade me come to him, 

Be gently bade me come ; 
And he has made his heavenly house 

My dwelling-place and home. 
On that best day of all the seven 

Which saw the Saviour rise, 
I heard the voice you could not hear, 

Which called me to the skies. 

I saw, too, what you could not see — 
Two beauteous angels stand ; 

They smiling stood, and looked at me, 
And beckoned with their hand ; 

They said they were my sisters dear, 
And they were sent to bear 



* Supposed to be addressed by the departed spirit of a 
boy to his parents, who, had lost two other children before 
him. 



152 

My spirit to their blessed abode, 
To live for ever tbere. 

Then think not of the mournful time 

When I resigned my breath, 
Nor of the place where I was laid, 

The gloomy house of death ; 
But think of that high world, where I 

."No more shall suffer pain, 
And of the time when all of us 

In heaven shall meet again. 

R W. P. Greenwood. 



153 



Sleep on, my babe ! thy little bed 

Is cold, indeed, and narrow ; 
Yet calmly there shall rest thy head, 
And neither mortal pain nor dread 

Shall e'er thy feelings harrow ! 

Thou may'st no more return to me ; 

But there 's a time, my dearest, 
When I shall lay me down by thee, 
And when of all, my babe shall be, 

That sleep around, the nearest ! 

And sound our sleep shall be, my child, 

Were earth's foundations shaken ; 
Till He, the pure, the undefiled, 
Who once, like thee, an infant smiled, 
The dead to life awaken ! 

Then if to Him, with faith sincere, 

My babe at death was given, 
The kindred tie that bound us here, 
Though rent apart with many a tear, 

Shall be renewed in heaven. 

R. Huie, 



154 



" Kise," said the Master, " come unto the feast." 
She heard the call, and came with willing feet ; 
But thinking it not otherwise than meet, 
For such a bidding, to put on her best, 
She is gone from us for a few short hours 
Into her bridal-closet, there to wait 
For the unfolding of the palace-gate, 
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. 
We have not seen her yet, though we have been 
Full often to her chamber-door, and oft 
Have listened underneath the postern green, 
And kid fresh flowers, and whispered short and 

soft; 
But she hath made no answer, and the day 
From the clear west is fading fast away. 

H. Alfokd. 



155 



SEnttxixiQ ftt. 

The valleys of Paradise echo again, 

And harp-notes of heaven are melting away ; 

Glad voices of melody catch the soft strain, 
An angel, an angel shall join us to-day ! 

She enters and pauses, her little bare feet 
Rest shining and white on the glittering ground ; 

Her ruby lips quiver, as fearing to meet 

The bright infant cherubs that gather around. 

They pass their soft hands o'er her luminous brow, 
With angelic winning her spirit beguile ; 

They whisper the language which cherubims know, 
Her blue eyes grow liquid with heaven's first 
smile. 



"Wings, wings for the angel!'' Behold! she is 
plumed. 
Bring harps, golden harps for the beautiful one ; 
Her brow with a glorious wreath is illumed, 
Her reign of eternity sweetly begun. 



156 



To win his flocks to fields above, 
Where dewy grass lies clothed in green, 

The goodly shepherd takes with love 
The gentle lambs his arms between ; 

VYhile on his breast they trusting lie, 
He climbs aloft to verdure rare ; 

Then finds he's won them toward the sky- 
The mother-fold all gathering there ! 

So Christ, in love, to win his folds, 
And lift the parent's heart to heaven, 

Their precious babes his bosom holds — 
He only takes what he has given — 

And bears them through the pearly gates, 
And keeps for us our jewels there ; 

For well he knows the heart but waits 
To follow where its treasures are. 

D. 



157 



iFor CJmrlfe'ff <Salte 

C. D. P.— 05. Oct. 28, 1861. 

The night is late, the house is still ; 

The angels of the hour fulfil 

Their tender ministries, and move 

From couch to couch, in cares of love. 

They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 

The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 

And lay on baby's lips a kiss, 

Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss ; 

And, as they pass, they seem to make 

A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake." 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again, 
Fitted with words of lowly praise, 
And patience learned of mournful days, 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 

His will be done, His will be done ! 
Who gave and took away my son, 
In "the far land" to shine and sing 
Before the Beautiful, the King,* 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 



For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
I will anoint me where he lies, 
And change my raiment, and go in 
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 



* Isaiah 33 : 17. 



158 

"Without, and seat me at his board, 
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 
For wherefore should I fast and weep, 
And sullen moods of mourning keep ? 
I cannot bring him back, nor he, 
For any calling, come to me.* 
The bond the angel Death did sign, 
God sealed — for Charlie's sake and mine. 

I'm very poor — his slender stone 

Marks all the narrow field I own ; 

Yet, patient husbandman, I till 

"With faith and prayers, that precious hill, 

Sow it with penitential pains, 

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains ; 

Content, if, after all, the spot 

Yield barely one forget-me-not — 

"Whether or figs or thistles make 

My crop, content for Charlie's sake. 

I have no houses, builded well — 

Only that little lonesome cell, 

Where never romping playmates come, 

Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb — 

An April burst of girls and boys, 

Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys, 

Born with their songs, gone with their toys ; 

Nor ever is its stillness stirred 

By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, 

Or mother's twilight legend, told 

Of Homer's pie, or Tiddler's gold, 

• * 2 Samuel 13 : 16, 23. 



159 

Or fairy, hobbling to the door, 
Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, 
To bless the good child's gracious eyes, 
The good child's wistful charities, 
And crippled changeling's hunch to make 
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. 

How is it with the child ? 'Tis well ; 

Nor would I any miracle 

Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, 

Or plague his painless countenance ; 

I would not any seer might place 

His staff on my immortal's face, 

Or, lip to lip, and eye to eye, 

Charm back his pale mortality. 

No, Shunammite ! I would not break 

God's stillness. Let them weep who wake.* 



For Charlie's sake my lot is blest ; 
No comfort like his mother's breast, 
No praise like hers ; no charm expressed 
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed 
That Death left lonely in the nest ; 
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, 
As for its birth-day in its best ; 
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest 
To Him who gave, and who did take, 



And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. 



* 2 Kings 4 : 26, 29, 34. 



^ % sH 



160 



Of all the darling children 

• That e'er a household blessed 
We place our baby for compare 

With the fairest and the best ; 
She came when last the violets 

Dropped from the hand of Spring ; 
When on the trees the blossoms hung — 
Those cups of odorous incense swung, 

When dainty robins sing. 

How glowed the early morning 

After a night of rain, 
When she possessed our waiting hearts 
To go not out again ; 
" Dear Lord," we said, with thankful speech, 
" Grant we may love thee more, 
For this new blessing in a cup 
That was so full before !" 
September, 1858. 

This year, before the violets 

Had heralded the spring, 
And not a leaf was on the trees 

Nor robin here to sing, 
An angel came one solemn night, 

Heaven's glory to bestow, 
And take our darling from our sight — 
What could we, Lord, at morning light, 

But weep, and let her go ! 



161 



How dark the day that followed 

That dreary night of pain, 
Those eyes now closed, and never more 
• To open here again ! 
"Dear Lord," we said, with broken speech, 
" Grant we may love thee more, 
For this new jewel in the crown 
Where we had two before !" 

A. D. F. R, 
September, I860. 



• 



162 



33afcg loofctnjj out for we. 

Two little busy hands patting on the window, 
Two laughing, bright eyes looking out at me ; 

Two rosy-red cheeks dented with a dimple ; 
Mother-bird is coming ; baby, do you see ? 

Down by the lilac-bush, something white and azure, 
Saw I in the window as I passed the tree ; 

Well I knew the apron and shoulder-knots of ribbon ; 
All belonged to baby, looking out for me. 

Talking low and tenderly 

To myself, as mothers will, 
Spake I softly : " God in heaven, 

Keep my darling free from ill, 
Worldly gain and worldly honors 

Ask I not for her from Thee ; 
But from want and sin and sorrow, 

Keep her ever pure and free." 

Two little waxen hands, 

Folded soft and silently ; 
Two little curtained eyes, 

Looking out no more for me ; 
Two little snowy cheeks, 

Dimple-dented nevermore ; 
Two little trodden shoes, 

That will never touch the floor ; 
Shoulder-ribbon softly twisted, 

Apron folded, clean and white ; 
These are left me — and these only 

Of the childish presence bright. 



163 



Thus He sent an answer to my earnest praying, 

Thus He keeps my darling free from earthly stain, 
Thus He folds the pet lamb safe from earthly straying ; 

But I miss her sadly by the window-pane, 
Till I look above it : then, with purer vision, 

Sad, I weep no longer the lilac-bush to pass, 
For I see her, angel-pure and white and sinless, 

Walking with the harpers, by the sea of glass. 



Two little snowy wings 

Softly flutter to and fro, 
Two tiny childish hands 

Beckon still to me below ; 
Two tender angel eyes 

"Watch me ever earnestly 
Through the loop-holes of the stars ; 

Baby's looking out for me. 



16tt 



God bless the little feet that can never go astray, 
For the little shoes are empty, in the closet laid away ! 
Sometimes I take one in my hand, forgetting, till I see 
It is a little half- worn shoe, not large enough for me ; 
And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain, 
As sharp as when, two years ago, it cut my heart in 
twain. 

little feet that wearied not ! I wait for them no more, 
For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reached 

the shore ; 
And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little 

shoes so old, 
She stands unsandled in the streets that pearly gates 

enfold ; 
And so I lay them down again, but always turn to 

say: 
God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot 

stray. 

And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see 
Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be ; 
Two little faces lifted, with their sweet and tender 

eyes. 
Ah me ! I might have known that look was born of 

Paradise. 

1 reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty 

air ! 
There's nothing of my darlings but the shoes they 
used to wear. 



165 



Oh ! the bitterness of parting cannot be done awaj% 
Till I see my darlings walking where their feet can 

never stray ; 
When I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, 
But with them safely landed upon the rivrer-side ; 
Be patient, heart ! while waiting to see their shining 

way, 
For the little feet in the golden street can never go 

astray. 



r% 



166 



<Dnh> a Year* 

One year ago, a ringing voice, 

A clear blue eye, 
And clustering curls of sunny hair, 

Too fair to die. 

Only a year, no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 
Xo clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair but to die ! 

One year ago, what loves, what schemes 

Far into life ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

"What generous strife ! 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone, 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone ! 

One year, one year, one little year, 

And so much gone ! 
And yet the even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, 
Above that head; 

orrowing tint of leaf or spray 
Says he is dead. 



167 



No pause or hush of merry birds, 

That sing above, 
Tells us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 

What hast thou seen ? 
What rising fair, what glorious life, 

Where thou hast l^een ? 

The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 

'Twixt us and thee ; 
The mystic veil ! when shall it fall, 

That we may see ? 

• 
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone ; 

But present still, 
And waiting for the coming hour 

Of God's sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Saviour dear ! 
We lay in silence at thy feet 



This sad, sad year ! 



Mrs. Stowe. 



168 



jFatrs ©ale*.* 

The picture of a little child 

That comes to us from o'er the sea, 
Why hath it thus my heart beguiled, 

Why such a charm for me ? 

Before it oft I stop and gaze, 
And pass the rarer pictures by, 

Until the shopman, in amaze, 
Would seem to ask me why. 

He does not know, nor need I tell, 
Where", in that face, a look I see 

Of one who for a while did dwell 
On earth to comfort me. 



The picture of a little child, 
A book, a child, and nothing more ; 

And she to quiet reconciled 
By Fairy Tales of yore. : 

What joy, what wonder on her face, 
And such as children only know ; 

And Art has caught each changeful grace, 
And will not let it go. 

childish face ! thou art not mute, 

Thou giv'st my thought mysterious range ; 

Here in thy presence I compute 
A story sweet and strange : 

* A picture by a foreign artist of a little child seated, and reading 
large book. 



169 



The story of a little life, 

So brief, and yet withal so sweet ; 
'T would seem a dream, but for the strife 

That made the life complete. 

Thus many a time in days gone by, 
A child, who dwells with us no more, 

(How deep the shadows now that lie 
Where sunlight was before,) 

"Would sit, a book within her hand, 

Her eye intent upon the page, 
As though she well did understand 

What did her sight engage. 

blessed child ! I see thee still ! 

My heart o'erleaps the solemn years, 
And eyes thou once with light didst fill, 

Thou fillest now with tears. 

And yet through Sorrow's cloud and mist 

Sly eager sight is swift to run 
Through sapphire hues, and amethyst, 

And glory of the sun ; 

Until thy face, with wondrous change, 

I, as in vision, clearly see ; 
child of mine ! marvel strange ! 

What might I learn of thee ! 

Two score of years, what have they brought 
Of knowledge to compare with thine ? 

The narrow reach of human thought,. 
To that which is divine ! 



170 

The mysteries of our mortal state, 
At which I shrink as they unfold, 

Nor fear nor wonder can create 
In them who God behold ! 

Sweet child, not mine as heretofore, 

Still mine in glory yet to be ; 
Dear Lord, could I desire more 

Concerning her of thee ! 

throbbing heart ! thy longings cease ; 

Come, patient Lord, thy grace bestow, 
And turn this sorrow into peace, 

That shall more perfect grow. 

This picture of a little child, 

By one who dwells across the sea, 

Thus hath it oft my heart beguiled, 
And been a joy to me ! A. D. F. R. 










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